


Until The Thaw

by thejeeperswife



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asshole Inquisitor, Cat and dog, Control, Death, Depression, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Ferelden, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief, Growth, Historian, Loss, Love Confessions, Lyrium, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Recovery, Mages, Magic, Miscarriage, Mourning, Moving Past the Past, Mysterious Past, Old Watermill, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregancy, Retired Warrior, Scholar, Some angst, South Reach, Templars, Trust, Trust Issues, Widow, cabin in the woods, dog vs cat, farming, finding happiness, finding love again, greed - Freeform, innovation, inventions, new life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-06 04:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejeeperswife/pseuds/thejeeperswife
Summary: The Rutherford siblings invited Charlotte “Charlie” Gibson into their house and home with no questions asked.  For years, Charlotte was able to rebuild her life after multiple tragedies and loss.  Mia, Branson, and Rosalie, along with their spouses and children, accepted the unorthodox and clumsy woman as a beloved adopted sister.Now after sitting on her hands for far too long, Charlotte is able to give this sorrowful family something in return:  their lost and estranged brother, Cullen, the famous former Commander of the unpopular Second Inquisition.  The ex-templar has nowhere else to go, and Charlotte knows he is a sinking ship quickly drifting towards jagged rocks.  Charlotte is willing to risk her own life and safety to bring this broken man back from the brink of self-destruction.  However, will the stubborn former knight accept Charlotte’s offer to reclaim Cullen’s life as his own again…or will he turn this deceitful lunatic over to his former advisors for the crimes that could have drastically altered the Inquisition’s bitter end?Theme Songs:"Losing It All" by Anberlin"All Eyes on Me" by Goo Goo Dolls"Hero" by Lissie





	1. One Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been bouncing around my head for two years now. After reading so many Post-Trespasser/Original Characters/[Insert Other Troupes] fan fictions, I noticed there were some gaps in approaches. I wanted to write a different outcome to Cullen's epilogue if he is forced to take lyrium again. I questioned what the Rutherford siblings' views and opinions of a missing brother that they essentially never met. I desired to review what would happen if the Inquisitor did not have a decent heart and selfishly thought of their own ambitions. Everyone has reasons for what they do, including my main character, Charlotte. I hope you enjoy this fluffy, bittersweet tale of recovery, companionship, and genuine friendship blooming into love.
> 
> Chapter Theme Song: "Running Away" by Hoobastank  
> If you are not familiar with my other [works](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejeeperswife/pseuds/thejeeperswife) (which you should definitely read XD) fan fictions, I give each novel and chapter "theme songs" inspired by the characters an plot. I created a music playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/thejeeperswife/playlist/4U5b8fF01U5dPUDTfW4n4i?si=ShlW3zA9QjKEwKTj-gXHJg) and [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLw4onCkm8zQay_Tgu04CQExGiAW1WhsQl) that are updated with each new posted chapter. Go and subscribe to keep up to date!
> 
> *Note: Rating subject to change as story progresses.
> 
> Thank you for giving kudos, comments, and feedback. Enjoy the story!
> 
> Story utilizes existing events and conversations from Dragon Age: Inquisition, all owned by Bioware and EA.

“ _Please_ , Mia!”  Charlotte—nicknamed Charlie—begged, leaning over her cross-stitch cotton swatch.  Her light sky blue eyes widen and glassed over.  “You have to bring him here.  You must persuade him to come.  You’re the only person he’ll listen too.  Yes, in his last two letters, he’s outright refused.  However, him replying at all means there is still a shred of hope that you can persuade him to come and at least visit!”

The blonde, curly haired mother of three, now heavy with twins, sighed and hung her head.  One of many stubborn curls fell out of her tossed bun loosely bound by a piece of blue ribbon Charlie gifted her last Wintersend.  Her feet stilled so the rocking chair remained in place.  Its last rocking creek caused Charlie to glance at the unsealed wooden floor, although recently mopped but already covered in dust and soot.  Mia’s glossy eyes flicked to the licking flames charring the inside of the large stone hearth they built last summer.  Crows’ feet accented her fair skin, spidering out from her hooded eyes, physical signs of a decade filled with worry and disappointment that took away the life and smoothness from her Fereldan facial features.  It has been only recently that she even considered giving up on this crusade spanning nearly fifteen years.

Rosalie lifted her hazel eyes from braiding Phoebe’s wavy hair, nibbling her lower lip.  She sat crouched on a foot stool so she was low enough to properly handle the three year old’s silky clean strains.  “But…”  The youngest Rutherford was usually not lost for words, but the subject matter usually stilled her typically fluffy sails.  “If he _does_ come, won’t that risk you?  He won’t understand.”  Her eyes broke from Charlie’s gaze and found great interest in a speck of dirt Gareth’s mud-caked boots dragged inside after herding the druffalo into a new pasture.  “He never understood anything.  Too busy chasing after his own dreams to consider others.”

Charlie tilted her head, managing a slight smile to assuage her concern.  “That’s a risk I have to take.  Even if it forces me to leave or worse-“

The word ‘leave’ broke the three year old’s strong attention on her corn husk doll.  Phoebe bolted from her seat on the wool spun rug and dashed at Charlie with a vocal wail and frantic open arms.  Rosalie barely registered the shifting child, her hands thankfully slacked to not ripe hair from her tiny scalp.  The toddler’s shortness only allowed her to hug Charlie’s dress covered legs and knees as new tears flowed from her amber eyes.  “No leave!  No leave!  Charlie stay forever!”

“I agree.”

Charlie barely had to turn her head, her foggy blue orbs filled with worry studying the new person through her stringy wavy blonde hair.  She knew that raspy baritone voice quite well as a tall muscular man with matching blond curls as his sisters meandered into the living space.  Branson finished wiping charcoal and grime from his hands and shoved the rag into his leather apron.  Apparently, he forgot to take it off before leaving his smithy again. 

The Rutherford man stood over the seated woman with his arms crossed like a Tevinter temple guardian statue.  “So, he declined to come here.  _Again._ ”  Branson’s voice rattled with disgust and rage.  “Good riddance, I say.  He made his choices now and back then.  He demonstrated he has wanted nothing to do with us.  I think we should have nothing to do with him!  We gave him one last chance now that he has no excuse for not seeing us.  I wiped my hands of him years ago, and you should do the same, Mia.”  Charlie threw him a look, trying her best to facially demonstrate her disagreeing attitude on the discussed subject.  Instead, Branson just smirked and laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder.  He knew Charlie typically did not mind a bit of metal slag and charcoal coloring her summer linen dress.  “Instead of saying we lost a brother, we gained a sister, one who has done more than that _ass_ has our entire lives.”

Charlotte’s light blue eyes focused on Rosalie, who still sat biting her lip and antsy.  She gently smiled at the woman by her brother, but her eyes displayed she agreed whole-heartedly on Branson’s assessment.  Finding no ally there or in Branson, Charlie caught Mia’s wary consideration and frowned.  Only she could do this anyway. 

The non-blooded family member had known for over a year the siblings’ feelings towards their eldest brother.  Charlie tirelessly worked to convince them their assessments were unfounded and based on gossip and passing time.  However, she could not divulge the reasons, the truth for why such a man turned from his only family.  They were not her secrets and experiences to share.  She swore to herself once she arrived in this household to keep her mouth shut and just focus on this very moment.  Convince the Rutherfords— _convince him_ —before the worst occurred.

Charlie spend the better part of two years preparing for this argument.  Each day had been its own challenge and obstacle that she valiantly fought and climbed.  She collected news and books, sometimes selling some produced goods for half their intended price just for the money to buy needed materials or information from caravans and merchants.  Many South Ridge residents thought the Rutherford’s new friend was unhinged for the items she requested from vendors.  Every first of the month, Charlie bought out the parchmenter of all his products, quill, and ink to continue her personal research and inventions.  Some villagers thought she may be a clerk or scribe in service to Bann Leonas Bryland, but they would always see her rush back to the Rutherford Farm and not return until the next shipment. 

The war inside that woman’s heart, mind, and soul raged for these last few years, contemplating if she was making the right decisions.  Was this truly the best course of actions?  Could Charlotte resolve some lingering problems if she left?  Could the woman reverse the damage already wrought if she did go?  Charlie caught herself on the King’s Road several times, prepared to leave South Reach even without any belongings or coin.  However, each time one of the Rutherfords would find her and adamantly convince her to stay a little longer, to think of the consequences if she did leave their homestead.  The last time, about seven months ago, Branson begged her to stay and forced Charlie to stay at his village home inside South Reach town proper monitor her behavior in fear she might leave in the night.  They truly believed it was better this way.  The damage already occurred and her presence would most likely get her killed or tortured.

Arguments with the close knit farming family did not stop at just Charlie’s world decisions.  They debated on her others personal choices and contributions around the homestead.  Rosalie always stated the female free-laborer worked too hard or did tasks that the men on the farm should handle.  Charlie disagreed and explained she needed the exercise and experience.  She spent too much of life seated and lazy.  Anyway, Charlotte stubbornly will never sit and let a _man_ do something that she knew she could handle with just a little bit more difficulty, but by herself nonetheless.  Her mother taught her to be self-sufficient. 

The houseguest assisted Mia constantly with house and farm chores, so she could care for her growing family.  That same growing extended family included her sister-in-law, Abigail, and little nephew, Lynton, who were not present on the farm with Branson that evening, per Charlie’s request.  She convinced Mia’s husband, Gareth, to take Rowan and Peter to town and visit so she could privately speak with the siblings alone.  He informed Charlie about the new letter sent by slow courier yesterday afternoon.  Mia’s husband and she concluded it contained the same responses as the other correspondence just by its light weight and small size.  Phoebe was to go with her brothers and father, but the toddler refused to be separated from Charlie, especially since her keen ears always heard ‘Charlie’ and ‘leave’ in the same sentence.  The adopted sister’s potential disappearance terrorized the little girl as much as Fade demons.

As the outside world continued onward, Charlie knew she was running out of time. 

The woman pushed herself to prepare for that faithful day that finally arrived six months ago.

The town crier, Bernard, read the most recent news traveling along the West Road.  His loud and booming bass voice declared an Exalted Council had been called in Val Royeaux to judge and determine the fate of the Second Inquisition.  The Inquisitor and his official advisors traveled to confront the accusations declared by both Orlais and Ferelden since Corypheus’ defeat.  The consensus in the crowded audience was to burn the Inquisition and make sure it cannot rise from the ashes.  Its actions further tarnished the institution’s long and gruesome history of bloodshed and zealous beliefs.

The villagers’ calls only rang louder when the Ferelden representative will be the famous Arl Teagan of Redcliffe, the younger brother to the king’s former seneschal, Eamon Gurrien.  That specific man’s demotion was a very public spectacle last year.  A public outcry wished the elderly man to be put on trial for treason.  The Crown only demoted him, stripped him of his noble status, and exiled Eamon and his Orlesian whore of a wife, Isolde, from Ferelden.  However, Connor, their mage son, was not restricted to such rulings and openly welcomed to Denerim by King Alistair.    That only angered Eamon more, too ashamed that his only son was a mage and thus blighted essentially.  Although, the king’s invitation depended if the young mage survived the past wars and the strict Fereldan Circle at Kinloch Hold allowed him leave.  Unlike if Charlotte based everything on the new Divine Victoria’s iron grip on the conquered southern mages.

Charlie remembered she personally wanted a beheading or draw and quarter the old bastard Gurrien since the Orlesian arlessa tried to kill King Alistair’s new bride!  Ten years and Alistair finally found someone to love again, and Isolde tried to _kill her!?_ Teagan never knelt to family pressures—or any warring faction for that matter—and supported the royal crown nonetheless.  It made sense that the Fereldan people felt he will properly argue to remove the growing imperial power called the Second Inquisition, which governed southern Thedas like a mighty tyrant.

Oh, how quickly people forget that the same organization they booed around Charlie that day six months ago saved the world from an ancient magister wishing to become a god.  How short-term their minds remembered that the Inquisition ended the Templar-Mage War tearing apart Ferelden, specifically Redcliffe, to pieces.  Yes, the silly Herald selected the damn templars and left a time-wielding magister to occupy Redcliffe for nearly two.  King Alistair’s mustered military only saved the famous city with the Inquisition’s Sister Nightingale.  She disobeyed the then Inquisitor, fed up with the dwarf’s conduct. 

The Venatori essentially sent the majority of southern Thedas’ mages boasted by red lyrium to Haven to reclaim the lost knights.  Charlie knew Fiona died a dishonorable death after a life fighting to free herself and others from bondage.  Still, there was a part of the woman’s heart that declared the grand enchanter got off too easy, while hundreds of mage children were probably carted off to Tevinter to be slaves.  Charlie’s research had not penned what happened to those young apprentices.  She prayed they were still in southern Thedas and could be recused.

Just one of many bad choices Charlie discovered about the Inquisition.

Still, the Rutherford adopted sister will change one consequence of those stupid decisions even if it risked her life.  Mia saw that determination on Charlotte’s smooth ivory face as she stared her down.  “I know you all have internalized anger and disgust towards your brother, but do not allow that to blind you now.  He is your blood and family.  Yes, none of you have seen him in over twenty years, but think what it must be like for him!  You all suffered during the Blight, but he had to do it alone and not supported by his loved ones.  He mourned your parents alone.  He was there when Kirkwall’s Chantry exploded and the Circles rebelled.  Now, he is a ship left afloat.  He lost his command when the Inquisition disbanded.  He is no longer a templar, so he will not be a part of the remaining Order regrouping with the new Chantry.  All he knows is how to be a soldier, an occupation that revolves around war and blood.  He know no peace that we take for granted every day!  For a warrior, I believe it must be difficult to resign that he has nowhere else to go.  That can kill a fighter more than any blade or flail.  He probably believed he lost his use, while too proud to admit to even his family he is broken and alone.  Furthermore, he probably does not even know family and friendship love, too resigned to just be alone and disattached from life.  You know why I can presume these thoughts because I witnessed firsthand such decaying depression in my own life.”

Charlie moved her cross-stitch onto a shelf to her right and lifted Phoebe into her lap.  The woman made sure that her linen dress did not bunch around her knees and that Phoebe’s night shift kept the little girl appropriately covered.  She held the toddler close like a security blanket, allowing Phoebe’s half done hair to tickle her slightly pointed chin and cheek while she laid against the woman’s chest.  Her little fingers curled around Charlie dress’ self-made embroidered collar. 

“If I can do _anything_ , for me to _do_ anything…”  Charlie rubbed aching eyes with her free hand.  The low candle light was not helping her blurry vision and growing headache.  She readjusted her last thought.  “I can help.  Him and you.  It will be extremely difficult, but this what I have been preparing for since I came into your home.”

Rosalie wetted her lips, glancing at her older sister.  Branson’s attention followed the same route.  Both siblings were their own adults, but Mia was still the head of the family.  No matter if they disagreed with their houseguest, Mia had the final say.  It was her homestead and governance.  It will be her household where all of this will occur.  The matter invited a practical stranger into her life and those of her growing children.  Yes, they all did this before welcoming Charlotte to live among them, but the silly woman wanted to be in their company, this this washed-up former knight.

Luckily, the eldest Rutherford loved her family deeply, even the brother who was led astray and ignored her offers of help and love.  Throughout the last fifteen years, Mia hunted down the man, finding him after each world-shattering atrocity.  She received more letters from him in his first year with the Inquisition than the ten years prior.  Then, the letters stopped after a year of positive and encouraging correspondence.  Something shifted again, and the brother distanced himself from his estranged family more than ever before.

Charlie had an idea of what occurred, thus why she was so adamant to push Mia, to _beg_ this man to return to his family.  Yes, they were no longer in Honnleath, their former lives destroyed by the Blight.  The family’s deceased parents still made South Reach feel like a stopping point rather than their new life.  Rosalie admitted once she still catches herself thinking their parents will be home from the market by dusk after selling their wheat and vegetables.  However, Charlie witnessed throughout the last two years they thrived here in the Arling of South Reach, slowly making a life their own so they can call this place _home_.  That lost man can do the same if he just _came_ there.

Mia swallowed, reaching over her shoulder for a quilt on a shelf.  She laid it over her baby bump and resumed rocking.  She sat physically in the present, but it was easy to see that her mind and heart wandered while searching for a conclusion.  In a mid-foot nudge to rock backwards, Mia spoke seriously low.

“We never…speak about what you know, Charlotte.”  The eldest Rutherford stated, causing the guest to shift her grasp on the toddler in her lap.  Mia rarely used Charlie’s full name.  The adopted woman successfully trained the family to use her nickname like her own once lost family.  “I think I can speak for everyone here that we have been extremely curious, but you have kept such information private, only divulging the facts once official news arrives on said events.  I stopped you myself many times as you slowly walked the West Road despite knowing you would never survive the journey.”

Mia took a deep breath, rubbing her growing belly.  Her twins were probably kicking, wishing more rocking to settle.  Gently smiling, her voice became more hopeful.  “You stayed with us, becoming a part of the family almost immediately.  You looked out for us and revolutionized our farm.  Our yields surprise the bann, our bounty more than all the local fields combined.  Some say you are manipulating our land like a Witch of the Wilds.  We know better, personally watching your beneficial knowledge and skills revolutionizing our lives.  You _want_ to this world a better place.  I know your choice to remain was our encouragement and behest.  You always say you could be doing something more.  You pace and wiggle about so restless like Peter when he wants a honey hard candy.  However, we are glad you stayed.  _You_ are our family and friend.  I consider you a sister.  I refuse to have anything threaten you or learn your secrets.”

Charlie squeezed Phoebe, realizing the little girl had quickly fallen asleep.  Drool ran down her chin as little snorts filled the still room.  “My secrets are now reality, well except how I met you all.  You have seen my cabin and notes when a new rumor or gossip arrives.  If we receive official news, I clarify it, knowing there is no point to keep it to myself anymore.  You all have respected that.  I appreciate it.  I don’t need to be present to already know the fate of those leaving the Inquisition.  Almost all of the leadership and Inner Circle will be fine despite the Inquisitor being a selfish _ass_.  However, based on my studies and knowledge, one person’s fate will not be well.  I cannot tell you why because I must be sure first.  The only way I know will be to see him myself.  Alas, if he does not come, it will also confirm my suspicions…my worst fears a horrible reality.”

“What will happen to him?”  Rosalie meekly asked, her hand cupped together to keep from fidgeting.

“A lonesome descent.”  Charlie carefully worded.  “It will happen within a year.  If he does not come, I know then I changed _nothing_ since I joined your household.  I will know I wasted all this time and thoughts only to save my own skin.  I will conclude that I wasted the knowledge I uniquely have because I did not go to Skyhold and confess everything.  What I feared what the spymaster would have done to me pales in comparison with the commander’s lost way.  I will believe that any words I could have stated to the ambassador would not have changed the Exalted Council or her broken heart.  I will know officially that I let that monster who only is walking away with one less arm ruined a potentially beautiful world because he only cared for himself and how the Inquisition can serve _him_.”

Charlie realized then tears streamed down her puffy cheeks and heart-shaped jaw.  She had done well to hide her emotions for months now, but the failures’ implications were too much to keep buried.  Thoughtful Branson kneeled by Charlie and handed her a clean handkerchief he kept in his back trouser pocket.  Charlie took it and used one hand to control the rivers of sorrow while trying to keep her hiccups from waking Phoebe.

The siblings’ behavior told Charlie everything they needed to know.  Rosalie nibbled on her fingernail, one of her habits when she does not know what to do.  Her gaze shifted to everyone present, waiting for a decision.  Her morphing facial expressions indicated her unsteady heart, especially in her urge to reduce Charlotte’s misery.  Branson faced away from the group, staring over his shoulder so the fire light could not oust his own warring emotions.  He leaned enough towards Charlie’s chair to essentially disappear into the room’s shadowed edges.  Lastly, steady Mia, heavy with twins, remained calm.  She did not allow her emotional pregnancy to rule her.

“Okay, Charlotte.”  Mia nodded, taking a deep breath.  Branson pivoted more into the darkness in mutiny, while Rosalie covered her mouth and finally settled her other hand’s tapping fingers upon her knee.  “You’ve read the letters.  What can I say to change his mind?”

Charlotte barely contained her overwhelming relief.  She loosened her firm grip on Phoebe’s hip while taking a few long deep breaths.  Okay, she can work with this now.  “I have a plan, one that if properly manipulated—although I wish we didn’t have to—will place in him a guilt-filled corner.  All Soul’s Day is a month and a half way, plenty of time for him to travel from Skyhold to here.  Recent rumors state the remaining Inquisition member must vacate the fortress by August, per Divine Victoria’s edict.  Tell him he should come so you all can properly mourn your parents.  It has been nearly fifteen years.  Turn it into a remembrance anniversary of sorts.  It is a horrible move, but one that he cannot deny.  His pride and faith will overrule his shame and denial.”

“It will be difficult to have him here, especially when the harvest comes nearly right afterwards.”  Rosalie reminded, shifting on the stool so she fully faced Charlie.  She hugged her legs.  “You also know how quickly the weather turns drearily off the Southern Hills.  Winter creeps up quickly after the air cools swoops off the mountains.  If we don’t have the harvest completed in time, we might lose the whole bounty.”

Charlie smirked and winked.  “One thing I can hypothesize about him is that he cannot stop working.  After the ceremonies, he will probably help knowing he cannot simply watch and keep idle.   Even if he hasn’t farmed in decades, muscle memory will guide him.  I’m sure of it.  He’s a stubborn mule.  He is what I would call a work-a-holic.”

“Sounds like someone else we know.”  Branson muttered, perking an eyebrow at Charlie.  The woman just rolled her eyes and lightly tapped his dusty shoulder.

“But there is one thing you all must agree on, if this is successful.”  Charlie took a deep breath.  “You have to act like I don’t exist, that I am not living here.”

All three siblings immediately started retorting until Mia snapped her fingers and made her sister and brother quiet like a true mother and family head.  “I thought the point of all this was for you to meet and help him.”  Mia’s word bit, annoyed by the challenging suggestion.

“It is, but think about it from his point of view.”  Charlotte’s heart was in her throat.  “Let’s say you go and visit Abigail and Lynton while Branson is at the smithy.  You arrive, but see she has a guest you do not know.  A person who travelled far to visit Branson’s immediate family.  She introduces you, but the guest is wary and anxious.  What would you do?”

Rosalie replied first.  “I would tell Abby I will come by another time, say it was nice to meet the guest, and leave.  I know I can see Abby almost any time, while the guest probably won’t.  I would give them space.”

Charlie smiled and tapped the tip of her nose.  “Exactly.  Mia, you never told him about me in your letters, right?”

Mia recognized Charlie’s point.  “No.  I did not want him questioning why we opened our home to practically a stranger essentially.  I never wanted anyone to get curious about your… _origins_.”

“He will want to bolt just at the hint of someone he doesn’t know living here, especially since he is finally seeing his family for the first time in two decades.  Gareth, Abigail, and the children will be enough chaos that he’ll want to flee.”  Charlie hoped she knew this man’s thoughts and attitude enough to properly predict his communications and actions.  “Give him a few days just to reconnect with you before we bring the rolling boulder that is me into the situation.  It will be relatively easy.  I will remain in my little cabin and work on designs and constructs.  I’m going to be a nervous wreck anyway.  The most difficult step will be to have the children not slip about me.”  Charlie nudged the sleeping Phoebe laying against her chest.  “This one in particular.”

“Why don’t you stay with Abby and I?”  Branson suggested, finally calm enough to turn back towards the firelight.  “Baby Lynton would love to his godmother.”

“You’ll want to take him to town, especially for the Chantry services and show him your smithy.”  Charlotte countered.  Branson huffed and glanced away at the suggestion.  “Anyway, the townspeople know me as the wacky woman who the Rutherfords took in like a stray mabari.  No, too many whispers and rumors.  Furthermore, from my cabin, I can ‘observe’ him.  I will know quite quickly if I am right and not.”

“And if you’re wrong?”  Mia questioned, eyeing the guest skeptical.

“He’ll stay on his own.  When I introduce myself, it will be much easier.”  Charlie daydreamed that might be the case.  Something positive had to happen sometime.  Her luck could not be _bad_ all the time.  “However, I know it won’t be that easy.  Nothing has been easy for a _long_ time.”

Charlie studied each person, their faces blank.  She worried she pressed them too far.  She wondered if this was for not and wasted years of preparation.  Most of all, she feared she has already failed everyone just by being idle.

Mia nodded and pursed her lip in a tight thin line.  Another curl fell from her bun with her movement.  Her hand glided over her stomach covered by the hand-sewn blanket.  “Okay, Charlie.  One more time.  I will write him in the morning.”

Charlie’s swollen eyes bloomed into glassy beaming flowers of mirth and relief.  The woman hugged the toddler again and rocked in her seat like she was just proposed to.  “ _Thank you!_   It is the least I can do for you…and for Cullen.”


	2. Antsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the encouraging and loving comments on the first chapter. This little tale is so different from my other works, I have been nervous writing and posting it. This chapter is not the best written because I wrote it while horrible sick with a cold. I cleaned it up, but it might still sound terrible. As always, kudos, comments, and shares are deeply appreciated.
> 
> Chapter Song: "The Widow of Loch Lemond" by Jeff Victor

The quill’s tapping against a blank parchment echoed throughout the primarily one-room cabin.  In perfect balance, Charlie’s index and middle fingers swung the hawk tail feather like a seesaw.  The woman did not care if she spattered blue indigo ink all over the shiplap log walls already decorated with parchment doodles.  That same amount of unkempt care extended to the quill tip too.  In just the last few bells, she had already bent one brass quill jacket and snapped two calamus tips, and forced Charlie to cut new points in an already weakened quill pen.

Charlotte had never been a patient person.  Her husband was the slow and steady man who always kept his calm and composer in crisis situations.  Friends remarked they were perfect balance of emotions.  The scales rarely tipped one direction. 

The widow always ran about like a chicken without a head.  After actually slaughtering her first chicken a year ago, Charlotte found the old phrase quite accurate, specifically the arm/wing flapping spraying feathers like a torn pillow.  Well, except how blood gushed like a fountain all over the chicken coop if done improperly, which of course Charlie did.  The coop looked like a violent murder scene with all the scattered feathers and blood spatter.

Alas, Charlie mimicked that headless chicken cooped inside her old water mill cabin per the planned agreement.  Somewhere on the Rutherford Homestead, her query will be or had arrived and meeting his siblings for the first time in about twenty years.  Her assessment regarding cornering the battered former commander into a guilty corner had been sound and worked efficiently.  The response letter arrived a week earlier than Charlie had expected, entailing he agreed to celebrate their parent’s lives with his estranged family.  He predicted he arrived roughly a day before All Soul’s Day. 

The scholar did not know if the man intended to visit and disappear again right afterwards, an under sight she had not considered until it was too late.  Mia assured her she would make sure to guilt him to stay longer, especially since the eldest Rutherford was two months away from giving birth and unlikely to assist with that year’s harvest.  The eldest sister wanted this visit to win her brother over, even if Branson was still quite sour about the lost brother’s stay.  Both Rosalie and Mia snapped that Branson needed to get over his childish, while Charlie whispered to the grimacing smith it was only natural to feel that resentment.  In both cases, Branson rolled his sapphire blue eyes and sulked back to town with his clammy hands stuffed in his leather apron.

Charlotte kept telling herself she had another two days at least before she was introduced to the former templar.  Her fraying nerves controlled her limps.  Even twirling her husband’s wedding ring on its long chain she always wore around her small neck did not settle her anxiety.  If Roane appeared right then, not even his comforting hugs and gentle kisses could assuage her concerns.  Too much rode on this excursion.  Its success determined Charlie’s achievements since arriving there.  No cisterns, pumps, irrigation, sanitation, hardware, or other farm inventions could outweigh the defeats if she could not convince a stubborn old soldier to give up lyrium again.  All her inventions and ideas meant nothing if her silence and idleness might have changed the tyrannical Inquisition’s outcome.

_If_ the former commander was taking lyrium.  It was more rational to assume the worse and prepare accordingly.  Charlotte lack the luxury to presume the other option. 

The hiding widow shook her fuzzy blonde head, forcing her eyes to study the spotted parchment before her.  Her hand stiffened from twisting her feather quill into a mangy stick.  It took a few moment for Charlie to remember her set task today.  Her light sky blue eyes flipped to the open book to her left, retraining her mind to read the foreign script fluently and writing in Dwarven Common.  The writing symbols were a different alphabets, but luckily flowed left to right.  On the other hand, Nevarran was the opposite, which chased Charlie away from learning the strange language.  The dwarven rune alphabet reminded the woman of other written alphabets she had encountered in her studies.  Yet, she rewired her mind on what the different runes meant.  After all, as much as Charlie found similarities between past research and now, ages of cultural and social differences and dialects shifted meanings and purposes.  However, knowing such past linguistics and their historical runes gave her a leg up on learning Common.  It still was a chore to translate and develop coherent scholarly thoughts though.

In most personal study, Charlie wrote in her native tongue to provide some privacy and secrecy from prying eyes.  Although, the Rutherfords left her designs and writings alone.  They respected her wacky privacy.  This particular study session focused on midwifery.  She ordered book from Denerim.  It arrived at the same time as the prodigal brother’s acceptance letter.  Charlotte purposely waited until his visit to begin her in-analysis.  The researcher wished to share the analysis with the local midwife, an elderly woman who birthed Mia’s three children and Branson’s son Lynton.  The elderly midwife’s experiences outweighed many contrasting practices found in Charlotte’s medical knowledge, but Ferelden struggled with sanitation and basic hygiene. 

Charlie and the midwife’s last meeting nearly came to blows over the subject matter, forcing Charlie to rethink her approach.  Twin births differed greatly from single child pregnancies.  When the midwife informed the eldest Rutherford of her double pregnancy, she wore a face that mimicked a barber surgeon declaring a soldier’s leg must be amputated without liquor pain management.  Instantly, Mia began making the appropriate arrangements in case of her untimely death.  Charlie refused Mia to lose hope for her unborn children and herself.  Yes, infant and maternal mortality rose substantially with multiple unborn children, but Charlie knew of uncommon practices that could diminish those concerns substantially.

Focus, Charlotte.

Charlie rubbed her tired eyes and groaned, her mind telling herself that she can save another life if she just paid attention to the current task.  Two Rutherford lives and many more beyond the family could be saved by her research and inventions.  However, much like the late summer breeze wafting through the cabin’s smaller windows, her heart and soul wandered to the new visitor.

Charlotte will meet Cullen Stanton Rutherford _very_ soon.

The idea itself rose two very opposite emotions inside her twisting heart.  From all her investigative research, she grew to respect and admire the former Commander of the Second Inquisition.  She saw the squadron of Inquisition scouts and soldiers march through South Reach’s municipality several times throughout the last two years.  They were always well trained, proper, and respectful.  Their uniforms were always tended to and shined so every squadron where ready to act.  Most usually kept their debauchery limited to nights they were off duty and to themselves.  They honored property and the local population.  They stopped in the tavern or attended a few festivals, but the warriors and archers never harmed civilians.  Charlie knew Cullen selected his troops carefully, weeding out those who would abuse or rape.  Those men and women’s conduct reflected their commander that they honored and regarded highly.

Yet, Charlie knew meeting a person and hearing about them from afar were two different things.  Leliana did a fantastic job keeping rumors or scandals from spreading throughout Ferelden.  Such success made news travelling on the West Road difficult to obtain.  Any information discovered always had a purposeful persuasion and bias twist.  The scholar read through the mockery and figured out the bits of truth.  The Nightingale would have been an excellent divine if that damn Inquisitor chose her over the Iron Lady, but only if Leliana was softened and remembered her former self.  Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast and Leliana were the most discussed non-cleric candidates for the Sunburst Throne, but the Inquisitor’s influences shifted the tide away from the Hands.  From what Charlie researched about the dwarf Inquisitor, Leliana was very unlikely to change her assassin ways as the former Left Hand of Divine Justinia.

Charlotte’s sky blue orbs flashed to a thick long list of actions and missteps the women discovered about Inquisitor Edric Cadash.  He was everything a descent being never wanted in a leader.  His was irrational, always acting against his advisors’ recommendations.  He did everything with force, which meant he kept Cullen and the conscripted templars constantly busy doing horrific actions in southern Thedas.  Charlie checked and confirmed through three different sources the multiple crimes the dwarf committed and got away with, while his advisors and Inner Circle suffered the consequences.  The dwarf reportedly returned to his Carta life, now advancing to the head of that particular arm.  Some surface dwarves even heard the vial man might pressure the Orzammar Assembly to make him the first surface dwarf paragon, especially after discovering a primeval dwarven site that had lyrium running like water through titan veins.  If that title went to _any_ dwarf, it would be fellow inventor Dagna, Charlotte’s personal hero.

The blonde scholar shook her head, which made her bun hair bounce against her sweaty neck and bits of fine hair fall into her face.  It was over now, six months past any further outlasting actions.  The last of Skyhold’s residence left the fortress that once stood as beacon of hope and freedom, now heavy and spoiled by the Inquisitor’s actions and Solas’ threatening plans.  Of course, Charlie kept that second fact to herself.  She kept a great deal of herself, knowing if she pressed her luck too far, an ancient elf or murderous cold assassin’s hand might slit her throat if caught dozing at her cluttered desk.  Leliana scared Charlie to the Void, while the ancient elvhen god was a deceitful enigma.  Neither were predictable or welcomed in Charlotte’s new life.

Mia knew Charlie held these mysterious facts.  She worried about the stress damaging Charlie more than it already had.  All Charlie could do was smile, tilt her head to the side, and say “Nothing can be done now.”  An old quote always followed that would always make Mia nod, “’Life is ten percent what happens to you and the ninety percent how you respond to it.’”[1]

A passing thought flickered across her philosophical mind:  how did Cullen respond to such a world inside Skyhold?

A second list of notes written in her native tongue hung from another nail to her left.  The nail was bent from her constantly removing it from the flat log walls to add or remove thoughts and observations.  Once again, it fell from the wall with a simple finger touch.  The shiplap slat looked like an overused corkboard filled with needle pins.  Charlie attempted to make a corkboard a few months ago to spare her precious decaying hideaway, but cork material was more difficult to obtain since most people used it for potion and wine bottles.  After all, why would a supposedly uneducated woman laborer need several dozen corks, some horse glue, and a few thin wood planks?  The townspeople already glared at her like she was a diseased freak, and the supply list only made them scrunch their brows more.  Oh the gossip she heard when nosy old villagers whispered in shadowy corners, which made their words echo right into Charlie’s ears.  Years of humanities and architecture study taught her that little listening trick.

Flipping through the parchment, paragraphs of concerns and similarities to past events detailed the obstacles that lingered on the horizon.  The eldest Rutherford son moved from location to location to only serve people who used him and cultivated horrific atmospheres that would make any damaged person more depressed and broken.  Three commanding officers each took and never gave.  The one place that could have truly been a sanctuary of warmth was Greenfell, but instead seeded anger and dependence on a liquid that ruined minds and souls. 

Maker, Charlie prayed, please have it that Cassandra at least stood and encouraged him.  Maybe that one person, a woman warrior Cullen trusted, might have broken that harden exterior the commander built following his long past.  According to the rumor mill, the seeker headed north, refusing like Leliana to serve the new divine.  Yes, she wished to rebuild her precious seekers, but the renewed Chantry and the former Inquisitor made the task difficult.  It seem Iron Lady Divine Victoria wanted to limit the groups that could oppose her crushing brutal influence.  The Circles mirrored their former rebellion’s conditions, if not even more harsh so that another mage cannot follow the Divine social ladder or call a new independence vote.

Charlie flipped the stack of observations away to the back of her messy desk.  It was just a four-legged wooden work table Branson used to have in his smithy.  Fire scoring and ash dust colored the wood like granite.  One leg was much shorter than the others.  Actually, all of them stood at different lengths.  So, Charlie used different stacks of used trashed parchment and flat sticks to level it out.  Alas, one always jolt from its specific surface and rock as she wrote.  She could no longer count the multiple times she spilled her indigo ink!

It was then Charlie noticed the shadows shift across her desktop, growing long as the summer sun descended towards the horizon.  Charlie slid her rickety chair over towards the open window to the right and glanced out at the open field.  A homemade sundial stood in the center made with an old pewter plate and a scrap piece of flat iron on top a wooden post.  The post once was part of a druffalo fence Charlie tripped and broke last autumn.  Somehow, she tangled herself in enough string and vines that Gareth was forced to snip the material to free the clumsy woman.  What made the incident more difficult was that the Rutherford’s druffalo cow, Ruddy, thought Charlotte had a salt lick and drooled all over the bound woman the entire time.

The time projected itself by the sun’s shadow, five bells after high noon.  Sunset occurred around the seventh bell after noon, the days growing shorter as summer shifted into autumn.  The Rutherfords always have dinner at dusk when the day’s work finished.  Darkness and exhaustion drove the farmers indoors to eat and quickly be to bed by the ninth bell only to rise again with the roosters and dawn.

What if he does not come?

Charlie did not think of this possibly until yesterday.  Roane used to comment she could account for any situation, but she always took as person’s word to heart.  If they declared they would do a task, she believed them.  Roane was always reliable.  Charlie took his respect and commitment for granted.  She could always count him being by her side through thick and thin.  After two years, it was still difficult remembering not everyone was like him.  Cullen Rutherford was a commendable person, but even he might tail and run from an awkward and frightening commitment.  The one person Charlie knew would stand beside her during this stressful situation was long gone.

Charlie caught herself turning her soulmate’s wedding ring on the chain again.  He was there in her heart, whispering to keep hope.  Focus on her mission.  She will react to the event one way or another with the noblest intentions.  The blonde lady could not push this ex-templar through a door he did not desire to walk through.  Although, he might never notice the open door if did not discover it with his awaiting family.  She snatched the list of limitations she had tossed only moments before.  She dipped her mangy quill into the ink and went to the back page.  _His choice only.  No pressure.  State reasons and walk away.  Do not push!_   Charlie’s handwriting looking like little Phoebe’s attempted chicken scratches when Charlie showed her how to write her name in Common.  The researcher’s hand cramped from working all day with no end to her anxiety in sight.  If she did not hear the announcement bell that hung on the homestead’s front porch before dusk, she figured she would be safe to return to the main house for dinner. Her query would not come-

- _Ring!_

Charlie bolted out of her seat, knocking the old wooden chair used by Gareth’s grandmother ages ago.  It clattered to the ground.  One arm broke from its carved socket requiring yet another fix attempt before Mia’s husband discovered the breakage.

- _Ring!_

That’s two.  Two meant nothing.  It could be the shaft bouncing and swinging inside the metal bell.

- _Ring!_

Dinner bell was three.  Four will mean-

- _Ring!_

In a flash Charlie twisted and stepped to run to the setup spyglass arranged at the other watermill window.  Alas, the accident prone woman forgot she knocked over her chair.  She tumbled to the wooden floor, her ivory face-painting into her design for a high-functioning windmill.  Her apron dress tossed over her head when her right leg kicked upward, and her knee still sat on the chair seat edge like a pole.  She flipped the helm back and puffed a bit of air.  Her blonde strains stuck to the cloth with static, making the stringy hair stick every which direction, specifically in front of her flushed cheeks.  She hoped none of the Rutherfords heard the tumble.  Gareth and the boys always kept an ear out for such accidents.  They have found her in all sorts of precarious and embarrassing positions. 

No, they will be all at the front gate leading to the property.  If the lost brother was driving a cart, he would have a difficult time maneuvering the mule or horse around that darn boulder that Rosalie loved to chisel over the years to resember the stone golem that once stood in Honnleath’s village square.  At the moment, it looked like a fat woman with boils.  How many times had Branson broken an axle on that sharp rock?!  Oh, how Rosalie cursed when that axle ripped off the stone lady’s sandy breast.  However, the eldest brother likely rode a horse…if he ever learned to horseback ride.  According to Cullen’s siblings, the young lad quivered in fright around horses after getting kicked in the back as a child breaking his clavicle.  Afterward, he refused to learn any trade involving a horse. 

Charile groaned and dragged her indigo-stained hand down her face.  Oh nelly, that was also a skill she had yet to master.  Not master, more like not even reaching a novice classification!  She loved stallions and mares, but most huffed and stomped when she approached.  Last time she attempted, she has barely took two mounted steps before being thrown or slipped off the saddle.  What a klutz!  The Rutherfords’ old cart horse, Boxer, threw her across the meadow six times one lesson.  Charlotte’s bottom resembled blueberry for weeks! 

The woman finally righted herself to roll on her sore behind and sat with her legs bent.  She shoved the chair aside.  Cullen would have had ridden to Adamant and the Arbor Wilds.  Josephine would never allow a commander walk like a common foot soldier for appearances sake.  Furthermore, Charlotte could never imagine him stuffed in a carriage with Josephine and the Inquisitor to attend the Orlesian ball.  He despised most topics the ambassador would mention to fill the silence.  Any childhood fear of mounts barely compared with nobility politics and etiquette.  Even that prospect would drive Charlie to have a black and blue behind for years!  The few nobles she encountered nearly drove her to stab knitting needles in her ears and eyes!

Charlie imagined the Antivan ambassador always had some topic to discuss because talking was a diplomat’s job.  Meanwhile, Cullen trained throughout his adolescence to be quiet and watch.  Templar were never to speak unless necessary.  The scholar had read the Chant of Transgression.  To repeat that while watching a candle flicker must have broken any antsy young man.  Even her dear tolerant Roane would be driven insanity after the first night.  Charlotte barely lasted a bell before she nearly burned her scalp falling asleep too close to the candle flame.  She only attempted that test once.  If she did again, it would likely end in the whole watermill burning to the ground with her inside.

A small pouting moan exited her pink lips.  She glanced around at the parchment-covered walls.   All this knowledge and innovation lost just because she wanted to experience firsthand a templar’s education.  Her mentors always commented it was easy to read someone’s personal accounts.  It was completely different to _live_ that life.  Although not all conditions matched, the templar’s task demonstrated a required resolve and mediation few people could achieve successfully.

A barking sound echoed throughout the homestead.  It rang from far away over the hill towards Mia’s turf home.  Of course!  Charlie bounced to her feet, remembering why she raced from her seat so quickly.  The blonde woman giggled in anticipation at the possible scene at the end of her spyglass.  Her mind rang she was spying and intruding on a long-awaited reunion, but for another, it was a chance to finally gaze upon a person she had only heard through story and rumor.

The nosy lady’s cabin sat on the edge of the wood, only circled by a few bushes and trees, but easily missed if someone did not know about it.  Even the small trickling brook to its left flowed into the surrounding forest, not towards any roads and other civilizations.  Its strange location is why Gareth’s family abandoned it decades before, allowed to decay and fall into disrepair.  The harsh Fereldan weather weakened the roof and rusted the old mill works.  By the time Charlie arrived on the homestead, a new more suitable windmill had been built by the barn.  Littering her house with parchment and books, Mia suggested the old building should become Charlie’s personal hideaway.  Charlie could ring the deep cow bell by the door to allow Mia’s children to visit.  Gareth, Charlie, and Branson fixed up the old building enough to no longer be a hazard.  They even installed a small stone hearth in one decaying corner and expanded the space to open it to the old rafters and back mill room so it was larger and not as compressing.  Still, the cabin creaked and moaned in the wind like it may collapse in the next snowstorm.   Furthermore, it barely fit all of Charlie’s research, but it was better than cleaning indigo ink stains off the dining table every dinner.

Since claiming the secluded spot, Charlotte transformed the building into a laboratory of sorts.  One of her first projects was developing a fractal telescope to stargaze, one of her favorite past times.  Her first attempt utilized a sailor’s spyglass she bought at the market.  Alas, the glass lens were glued and screwed into place and would fracture the needed lens if taken apart.  So, Charlie used this as her observation telescope to animal watch, especially the birds who snacked on the scattered seeds she collected on forest walks.  It also served to watch what occurred throughout the homestead.  Her cabin laid on an incline, a little higher than the rolling hill heading towards the main house.  That meant she saw all sorts of movement about from her hideaway.  She could witness if Mia and Rosalie were doing chores so she could assist or if the children were misbehaving.  It actually saved little Phoebe’s life last winter when the toddle slipped on ice and cut her head open on a hidden stone.

Now, Charlie angled the tube towards the main grass-roof house’s south side.  Several people move about, while a grey and white monster of a dog bound about and barked at the curious children.  It sat once called by an obscured person to not crush the curious young boy approaching, Peter no doubt.  The prying woman did not see Branson, Abigil, or Lynton, meaning the younger Rutherford son either was still working at his shop or wished to avoid the initial greeting.  Likely both if based on his conduct weeks ago.

The researcher pouted and groaned, moving the spyglass all directions for the man that this all relied on.  Mia was conversing with someone, but the person was blocked by Gareth’s large head and brushy beard.  Only his broad hands flicked up and down sometimes.  Charlie could tell by their waving it was induced by nerves and uneasiness.  She did something similar when she got too excited explaining a sanitary system or water irrigation.  Every few moments, the right hand flashed to the person’s neck.

The greeting family started shifting towards the house, the new arrival still beyond her sight through the convex glass.  Still, Charlotte did not give up the search until Gareth disappeared behind his wife through the front porch door.  The farmer’s hand gave a thumb’s up her direction and out of eyesight of their new visitor.  Of course the family patriarch knew she was watching everything.

Charlie smiled and lifted her sky blue eye from the glass piece.  Just like writing a book, the first sentence is the most difficult.  The initial reunion commenced beyond her perked ears and gaze.  Was it positive or tense?  What was the former commander’s facial expressions?  Was there a chance he might flee in the night?

No matter the curiosity or questions, the non-Rutherford had to trust in her plan.  She trusted her new family immensely, and they shared her far-fetched hopes.  They knew this reunion was as important—if not more—to Charlie as much as Cullen’s siblings.  She squeezed her glossy eyes tightly as she held herself.  She will not know anything until that night when Rosalie declared she would come and tell her everything.  Charlie attempted to talk the youngest Rutherford out of the excursion.  A former commander of ten thousand troops and templars will sense such actions and naturally investigate, most likely to protect his baby sister’s honor.  Rosalie heard none of it.

“You should be in that house with us, Charlie.”  The young beauty cooed that morning before living to feed the rams.  “Not sheltered in an old mill with only a hard straw mattress, cold water, and a few belongings at your despoil.  People will really believe you are just a destitute slave we keep around to shovel manure.  This was your idea, and I will see it through.  However, I am not going to pretend my adopted sister is not out here alone with only her books and thoughts.”

A tear ran down Charlie’s ivory cheek.  This was the first night she was actually alone on purpose in two years.  Her new family filled her hollow life with mirth and excitement.  It was as if Rosalie knew what Charlotte will do all alone in the night:  reflect and mourn for a once happy life forever lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] One of my favorite quotes by Lou Holtz.


	3. Wariness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: "Long Way Back Home" by Barenaked Ladies
> 
> Posts will be cycled through with other fan fictions. I can only write so much and post for you all. To keep up-to-date, subscribe and bookmark!

“I don’t know what I was exactly expecting.”  Rosalie remarked while blowing steam off her hot mug of tea.  She cupped it close to her chilled cheeks and stared at the far wall.  “The air was just so _awkward_ and tense.  Thank goodness for that mabari or no one would not know what to say.”

Charlotte pursed her lips a few times.  Her left hand ran through Tomas the Barn Cat’s fur as he snoozed on her lap.  The orange tabby purred contently after a long day eating field mice.  His hefty belly made Charlie’s legs ache in the same constant position, but she refused to disturb the relaxing cat’s rest.  She had pulled her chair beside the small hearth so Rosalie could sit with her legs lounging on the straw bed. 

The maiden’s behavior arriving just several moments ago demonstrated she was stressed and bothered.  So, the watermill’s resident heated her a nice lavender tea to make Rosalie comfortable.  The youngest Rutherford only wore her summer chemise and a loose knitted shawl.  Her cool rosy feet buried themselves under Charlotte’s knitted quilt folded at the end of the bed.  Her foregone any slippers, preferring to scrunch her toes in the long summer grass while walking to the cabin.  Her long wavy light strawberry blonde hair remained loosely braided and out of her face, but bits of bangs curled around her ears and against her forehead.  Her hazel eyes stared into nothing, while her spinning mind digested the last few bells.

The hiding woman could not blame Rosalie’s stress and trepidation.  “First, of course a mabari would break the ice because you Fereldans cannot help but nuzzle and worship the hounds.”  Rosalie giggled and sighed, Charlie’s intent before diverging into my serious matters.  “Second, you essentially do not know the man.  You were a very young girl when he left for training.  You were not even his adolescent age when the Blight occurred.  At that time, your mind and heart barely handled your parent’s deaths, let alone your brother’s.  It must have been a shock to discover a man you only vaguely remembered and who thought dead was actually alive and in Kirkwall.”

The stories Charlotte originally knew did not account such details until she came a part of the Rutherford household.  In their pursuit to bury their faults and slipups during the Blight, the Chantry mistakenly announced there were no templar survivors within Kinloch Hold Circle.  The shock of the mysterious event at the Circle garnered sympathy for the weakened Fereldan Chantry and estranged mages and Fereldans considerably.  The action moved against the growing acceptance of mages since many fought and saved Denerim during the last archdemon battle alongside the mage Hero of Ferelden and King Alistair.  Mage healers, especially the so-called dangerous spirit healers, saved countless lives through their safe mending spells.  The Chantry panicked and spread the vague details of what similar mages did at Kinloch Hold to push mage sympathy background again.  Just another example that pressed the Mage Rebellion years later to revolt.

Anyway, the only reason why the Rutherford’s letter found them in South Reach was that the arling was where most Honnleath villagers resettled.  The bann offered open land for any yeoman willing to work a small acreage for him personally as repayment.  The Blight killed much of the population, so laborers and farmers were treasured and given greater benefits by the nobility.  The Rutherford could not refuse such an offer.  That circumstance was how Mia met her husband, Gareth Grieve, a fifth-generation South Reach farmer.

The remaining Rutherford siblings gave their supposed deceased brother an Andrastian funeral along with their parents’.  No bodies were every recovered from Honnleath or the Order, so it was symbolic rather than proper purification and pyre burning.  They accepted the news for two years until a Chantry merchant selling tranquil enchanted goods arrived in South Reach.  He remarked he knew of a Fereldan surnamed Rutherford in Kirkwall who had just been made knight-captain.  Alas, the merchant could not recall the templar’s first name.  Searching for any good news after many years of sorrow, Mia wrote to the Gallows and discovered that indeed her brother was alive.  He gave no explanation to why he never informed his family where he had been reassigned.  He used the excuse he was unaware they even lived as well.

Charlie gritted her teeth.  She knew why Cullen turned such miscommunication on his family.  She kept that secret to herself.  It was not for her to speak.  The family reported to the Chantry they had misinformed about their brother’s death.  They simply replied he must have been a part of the templars locked outside the Circle and said no more.

“It was easier back then…”  Rosalie whispered following a tea sip.  “I only vaguely remember a young boy carrying me around and showing me how to pick elderberries for mother’s pies.  I accepted I would never meet him again when we thought he was dead.  I put those memories to rest and essentially forgot his existence to finally move beyond the Blight.  Then poof!  Nope, he was alive and wanted nothing to do with us.  Mia remembers the most of course.  Branson does some too, even for a time wishing to be like our big brother.  But not me, no recollections to even reminisce.  I know my older brother as well as I know that mabari that came with him.  I recall more about the tax collector who comes every few months than my own flesh and blood.”  She took a quick drink to hide her ashamed frown.  Her hazel eyes snapped to Charlie across the room.  “Does that make me wicked?  A terrible person?”

Charlotte sighed and found a way to break from the young woman’s questioning stare.  “I never met my maternal grandmother.  She actually died a few days after I was born after a long battle with a decaying disease.  She lived long enough to discover if she would have a grandson or granddaughter.  She never saw me before her passing.  My family told me this story every time someone spoke about her.  As a child, I felt honored that someone I will never know wanted to meet me.  Then as an adolescent, I felt this great regret and sorrow.  A woman I will never know loved me so much to bear through weeks of horrific pain just to hear of my birth.  I fought myself for years, doing all these judgmental deeds and win my family’s favor to determine if I was worthy of that and if I would ever live up to those suggested expectations.  Then it hit me.  It was not about me _earning_ that honor, but a loving completion of my grandmother’s life.  It was a signal of _her_ achievements and experiences.  I think that is one reason why grandparents spoil their grandchildren.  They gave birth to their sons and daughters, raise them, and slowly allowed them to stand on their own two feet.  Those grandparents know they successfully raised their children when they witness they create life and continue the expanding growing family.  The same can be said about your parents about Mia and Branson’s children.  They might not have been here for their births, but their blood and legacy lives on in them.”[1]

The aches and knotting in Charlie’s knees forced her to shift a little.  Tomas the Cat moaned and jumped from Charlie’s lap instantly.  Her comforting purring companion jumped out a nearby window to find rest elsewhere.  A benefit of his swift departure was that she could shift her behind on the hard wooden seat.  She needed to make it a wool sitting pad or something, especially if her hidden stay was longer than projected.  “What I am saying is that yes, you don’t know your brother.  However, that does not mean you have no feelings towards him.  We learn to laugh and cry even before we create our first true memory.  You probably remember different feelings when you saw him today, not an image or event that had created that reaction.”

Rosalie exhaled and allowed her legs to stretch on the bed.  “But what of now?  First impressions were not that…stellar.”  The last word bit on her tongue.  “He avoided hugs and affections, barely embracing me when I approached.  I kiss cheeks and hug strangers because I care about all, but he shied away.  He said little, more listened and watched throughout dinner and sitting by the hearth before bed.  It made us feel like it was all unwelcomed.  _We_ were unwelcoming.”

The researcher could not help but giggle.  Rosalie threw her a strange and miffed look.  Charlie coughed once and took a quick drink of her own tea to recompose herself.  “What are the templars like at the Chantry, Rosie?”

The young woman snapped her head backward and eyes widen.  “Stolid, stand-offish, unapproachable unless requested by a Chantry sister…Oh.  I see now.”

“That has been his life nigh two decades.  Probably more so as the Inquisition’s commander.  Remember Mia’s story about Cullen’s awkwardness when that milk girl wanted to give him a farewell kiss when he left for Denerim?”

A merry glow brightened Rosalie’s melancholy face.  “Oh!  How that girl chased him into the barn.  It took Branson to find him under a hay bale.  Mia mentioned Cullen wouldn’t come out until he knew that milk girl went home!  The accompanying templars almost called the journey off!  That would have made Mama happy, but Cullen finally ventured out with that threat.  His desire to be a knight overrode his fear of the opposite sex.”

“Who says he might be still bashful and skittish?”

Rosalie scrunched her brow.  “I can understand that for a young boy, but he is anything but!  Thirty-five summers old, and he looks like an elderly man.  Peculiar for a man who dined with nobles and served with the influential and rich order ever seen in Thedas!  You would think he would be still young, not like an old worn out laborer you see in town.  Surely he grew out of such boyish games anyways!  Aren’t soldiers more…”  Rosalie blushed and glanced towards to the open window.  Cool summer breeze soften her embarrassment.  “…promiscuous?”

Elderly man.  Old worn out laborer.

Charlotte squeezed her eyes tightly shut.  She still had not gotten a good look at her query since his arrival, but Rosalie’s description was still discouraging.  Still, it could mean both outcomes that she worried about for the last two years.  The woman shook her apprehension away to avoid frightening her guest.  “Remember how I was when I first arrived?”

Rosalie nodded once.

“I acted strangely and displayed behavior that mimicked a child more than a grown woman.”

The Rutherford woman nodded again.

“From my research,” Charlie prefaced, while waving to her books and studies behind her.  “A male recruit is kept with other young boy templars.  None of them really have a family.  Many are orphans given to the Chantry at birth, likely children of mages taken away from their mothers.”  Charlotte’s lip twitched at the fact.  She quickly cleared her throat and continued before going off on a rant.  “They learn and rely on one another.  You and I have spoken many times about how Mia became your mother _and_ your sister once your parents died.  She provided for you all despite being a young woman herself.  It changed your maturity level just to assist her.  You all grew faster than your physical bodies.”

“Wouldn’t that just defend Cullen should have grown out of such behavior by now?”

Charlotte shook her head, her loose hair batting her ears.  “No necessarily.  You all still had connections to the outside world:  other adults, races, and genders.  You remember what we heard about mages in the Hinterlands.  How many apostates got power hungry after decades behind closed walls?  The same can be said about templars.  Boys forced to grow quickly one way, but not socially encouraged via personality and emotions.  Just think of the immature groups of so-called men who always catcall you at the village.  Strong bodies, but idiotic thought towards women’s desires!  I doubt the Chantry encouraged knights to date, but rather push to declare a vow of celibacy and rely only on the Chantry and the Maker.  I theorize Cullen is much an immature man towards specific races and genders just as he is extremely mature and wiser behind his years on other matters.”

Rosalie perked an eyebrow.  “You seem to assume much about a man you have yet to meet.  Don’t you always tell Rowan to also think about all options before making a conclusion?”

“You have be there.”  Charlie giggled, pointing briefly at her guest.  “I am playing the Black Divine to your observations.  Any of this could be an explanation to his behavior.  I know one thing, he sounds like he is not as bubbly and positive as you.  Just because he doesn’t share in your optimistic mindset does not mean he won’t come around.”

Rosalie beamed, her hazel eyes dazzling in the candlelight from an old crate beside her.  “I’m not give up on the sour-puss, just surprised about someone who hasn’t see his family in decades.  You said yourself he had nowhere else to go.  You would think he would be more accepting that we opened our doors to him, despite his repeated off-putting behavior.  It’s quite rude really.  Although…”  Rosalie diverted her eyes and pulled her shawl over her shoulders.  Charlotte watched as a chill and shiver rolled through the sister’s body.

“Rosie…?”  Charlie questioned, leaning forward in her seat.

“Just…”  The young woman sighed and laid down her mug by the crate candle.  “He stated he could only stay tomorrow night after the All Soul’s Day ceremony and leave the very next morning.  He mentioned he was needed in Val Royeaux.  He insisted he must leave the day after tomorrow.  You were right.  His focus laid on that place and it alone.  I always assumed Fereldans despised Orlais and its capital.”

Dread welled up in Charlotte’s soul.  She anticipated this, but not so quickly.  She surly believed he would stay a day or so longer, not automatically turn around and head west and only seeing his siblings one day.  Part of her mind knew his urgency, which only inflamed her rage and digest towards the Inquisitor and the Chantry.

Charlotte bolted from her seat and sat down in front of Rosalie, grabbing her callused farmer hands and leaning forward.  “Rosie, under any circumstance can you not allow him to leave.  That alone only adds to my fear the worst has occurred.  I might even have to speak with him sooner, but please keep him _here_.  Keep him engaged in this place!  If he goes there…he will never return.  _Ever.”_ Her tone lightened a little, but her accent still wavered with each breath.  “But yes, every Fereldan really avoids Val Royeaux.  _Most_ Thedosians would if they ever saw the capital’s undertones and poverty.  I doubt the culture is why he wants to go…”

Rosalie searched Charlie’s dull blue eyes, taking deep breaths as she processed her words.  Charlie asked a great deal of this woman who just confessed she outwardly felt nothing towards this man, this stranger that had entered their house and world.  Her hazel eyes danced across Charlotte’s ashen face to discover what knowledge the scholar knew but refused to diverge for years.  Charlie knew she asked a great deal, but to save a life…!?

Then the young woman’s grimace shifted to a mischievous smile.  “Already ahead of you.  Mia is going to exaggerate her pregnancy aches and pains during service tomorrow, while Gareth will admit he must visit his relations over the ridge to attend to his own parents’ memorial site.  We both know he did that a few days ago.  Branson, the twat that he is right now, will remain in town with Abigail, but Lynton wants to play with his siblings.  By the way, he sent a message before Cullen’s arrival Branson was unable to attend.  Oh my, that will make things that more awkward tomorrow morning.” Rosalie moaned and rolled her eyes in anxiety.  “Anyway, that means it will be only be Mia and I herding the children back home.  Mia could see Cullen could not sit still and allow others do work.  He jumped at the chance to tend to the fire and hull water from the cistern following dinner.  Just like you said!  So, hopefully such pressures will encourage him to stay longer?”

Charlie nodded a few times, while other options rolled around.  “Just don’t let the children overwhelm him.  I figure he isn’t used to young kids running amuck.”

Rosalie exhaled.  “Oh yes…That was evident when Rowan asked him about fighting with a sword.  Cullen almost carried that blade into the house, but Mia demanded he leave it and the scabbard by the door.  That did not go quite well.  I never saw someone so attached to a sword.  Well, Rowan finally gained the nerve to ask, only spurring Peter to finally break his curiosity.  Cullen didn’t say anything bad, but more acted like he was commanding new soldiers than entertaining his nephews.”

“After what he just did the last four years, it’s understandable.”  Charlotte countered, dropping their joined hands to Rosalie’s lap.

“We knew that, but it showed he was out of his element.”

“Like a fish out of water?”

Rosalie grinned.  “You always have the right analogies to explain everything.  You should publish some of them someday.”

Charlie just bit her lower lip and rolled her eyes.

“Mia and I began washing the remaining dishes.  Gareth gave him a stern look to not suggest teaching an eight and five year old swordmanship.  Cullen quickly vacated the sitting area and remarked he had never seen a farmhouse in our style, even at an aristocratic mansion in Orlais.  We were not sure how to respond if he was slandering his home kingdom, but his questions were positive and demonstrated he was truly interested.  He commented on our hearth, the multiple floors, warm walls, water access, and cleanliness.  Charlie, we almost ruined it all!”

“We all almost said your name and contributions at the same time.”

Color drained for the researcher’s face.

“But, we recovered…ish.”

“Ish…?”

Rosalie opened her mouth and chuckled cautiously.  “Yes.  Well, you’re a chicken now.  Specifically that one you absolutely hate with the weird walk and missing tail feathers.  You know, the one that somehow survived the fennec last year.  You remarked its stupid clucking probably scared the wild animal away.  It was the only one I could describe at the moment.  I know you want to kill it for always ripping up your flowers, but I had to think of something before Cullen got suspicious.”

“Wait.  What…?”  Charlie reared back and let go of Rosalie’s hands.  “Come again.”

The youngest Rutherford giggled at the facial reaction.  “Phoebe wouldn’t stop saying your name, even though we told her not to.  We knew that wouldn’t work, but try to turn it into a game.  The little one barely lasted two minutes before asking where you were.  Cullen finally asked who or what this ‘Charlie’ was, and Mia quickly blurted out a chicken Phoebe plays with all the time.  So every time Phoebe talked about something ‘Charlie’ did, we have to amend the tale to fit how a chicken built a cistern on top the house.  And revolutionized the cooking area.  Also, how such hen developed a new inexpensive plaster affordable to a farming family to seal the wood slat walls…”

Charlotte could not help by cackle at that.  She could envision anyone’s face trying to comprehend the amended stories.  “That must have liven up conversations.”

“First actual cracked smirk on his lip!”  Rosalie gasped and leaned forward.  “He has this scar that cuts down his upper lip that looks freaky when he smirks.  It actually scared Peter!”

“This coming from the child who is afraid of ladybugs and fireflies because they could bite him.”  Charlie muttered, while rolling her sky blue eyes.  “How else does Cullen look?”

A wicked grin graced Rosalie’s lips.  “Fancying my brother, Ms. Gibson?"

Bright red blush creeped across Charlie’s ivory face.  A deep heat coursed through her whole soul.  She could not explain her curiosity just as she knew why she flew to her spyglass bells before.  The Rutherfords barely understood her origins.  Such knowledge would throw the whole family into craziness.  Alas, the truth will come out very soon if the ex-templar decides to leave the day after tomorrow.  Still, Charlotte wanted to know how close his physical face matched the images artist and sketchers portrayed the former commander.  Will he match her own imagination and recollection after so many years?  She already spent years rewiring her brain to let go of what she thought was fiction to absorb and accept reality. 

If Roane sat beside her right then, he would just chuckle and nudge Charlie’s side with his elbow.  He would remark her fandom was peeking through her manners.  He would suggest his wife should join the crazy gawking Orlesians that crowded Commander Rutherford at the Winter Palace because she practically was doing the same thing.  Roane would never feel threatened about this potential mystery man taking his wife from his side.  He rarely became jealous, trusting Charlotte immensely as she did in him.  Many people did not understand how a husband can have many female friends and she spending time with men did not create a troubled relationship.

But, Charlie’s husband was not there, and the real world was cruel.  The idea of actually housing feelings towards this man now after losing her husband burned a sorrowful space in her heart.  Charlotte’s soulmate was now in the heavens, leaving her to navigate this harsh world alone.  Love was a construct she would never allow herself again.  The heartbreak of losing Roane nearly killed her.  The Rutherfords brought her back from the Void.  No, Charlie’s actions were born from a desire to right a wrong and give back this family’s lost brother.  It was not a personal crush or an urge for affection.

…but _maybe_ a bit of fanning from afar.

Even aging, Cullen Stanton Rutherford was considered one of the most handsome bachelors of southern Thedas.  Reportedly, the commander received dozens of marriage proposals at Skyhold, all he turned down without reading.  Some rumors proclaimed he was already secretly married.  Others proclaimed he preferred the company of men—which only encouraged Orlesian noblemen to propose relationships—or just married to his work and dedication.  That still did not stop the proposals pouring through Skyhold’s gates.

Alas, Charlie was no amused by Rosalie’s innuendo, eyeing the young maiden across the bed.  “No, thank you. By understanding his physical appearance, I can make the proper choices and necessary arrangements once I do meet him.  ‘Be Prepared,’ Roane always used to say.”

Rosalie’s face became crestfallen hearing Charlie’s husband name.  “Charlie, I didn’t mean any-“

Charlotte held up her palm and shook her head.  Her blonde waves danced against her heart-shaped face.  “I know that was not your intention.  Just always looking for the truth.  Maybe I will get a glimpse tomorrow.  Maybe uninformed observations is better anyway.  Bias wavers study and proper experimenting.”

Rosalie barely relaxed following the response, still hesitate that she will rise unwanted emotions from within her friend.  “I hopes this all works out, Charlie.”  She pulled her legs and shawl around her whole body and chemise.

“It won’t.”  Charlie retorted and exhaled.  “If it went well, I would be extremely nervous.  But, as you know, I love challenges.”

Rosalie giggled and tilted her head to side so her braid fell over her shoulder.  “That you do.”  Her hazel eyes danced across the cabin’s littered walls.  “What else would you do if you solved all the world’s problems?”

Charlie joined the mirth.  “Trip over my own feet into druffalo patties.”

“You do that already!”

“Exactly!  Just another problem to solve.  I will want for nothing then just as long as I continue to be so accident prone!’

“We all can attest to that, dear sister!”

Laughter filled the old watermill cabin.  The day’s anxieties and stress dissipated with the night.  Allow the stars to take troubles away, and they will brighten one's darkness instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I never did meet my grandmother, who died three days after I was born. I struggled with this fact for years until I realized it was about her life’s completion through my birth. Life to Death to Life.
> 
> Are Rosalie's views and emotions valid? Does she had the right to question and waver around her own brother just as Cullen presented such mistrust to the family that first reunion? How about Branson, who just left his sisters to greet the long lost brother? What do you think was Mia's impression? Let me know in the comments!


	4. Honor Thy Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: "Arthur's Farewell" by Enaid
> 
> If you want to know what Charlotte's outfit described in the chapter looks like go [here](https://thejeeperswife.tumblr.com/post/182197925994/chapter-4-of-until-the-thaw)!

Charlotte chose her first handmade dress with its multiple fabrics and designs over the solid burnt orange dress she bought that spring.  Although Roane’s favorite color was clay burn orange, he would applaud Charlie’s first completely self-attempt at dress making and her choices of scrap fabric.  The woman still smirked at the paisley patterns, random browns, tans, and yellow fabric she got for dirt cheap.  Really.  She remembered it was almost the same worth as fertilizer compost dirt!  They were the weaver’s last of those unpopular designs.  The merchant she could not sell it, wanted it out of her stall for more sellable cloth skeins.  Charlotte, ever crazy with her odd ideas, jumped at the chance.  Alas, no matter her scrubbing, she could still see the blood drop stains where Charlie repeatedly stabbed herself sewing, especially along the cuff straps to give the tan fabric some flair.  Both Mia and Rosalie offered their assistance, but they helped her too many times, and she had to learn the skill herself.  She got some strange looks from the villagers for her pattern combinations, but she loved it.  Roane would love it.  Uniquely her.

After Rosalie left last night, Charlotte took a quick cloth bath, thankful to the youngest Rutherford for bringing a bar of lard soap smelling of dawn lotus, a special treat usually costing too much for wee basic subsistence farmers.  In her rush to exile herself to the cabin, Charlotte forgot basic hygiene equipment, including her teeth sodas.  The fur growing in her mouth nearly made her gag!  There was a small water tank behind the cabin that collected rainwater and the brook’s running spring water for Charlie’s wash and drinking.  Utilizing the remaining tea water in the fireplace, Charlie mixed the boiling and cold waters to at least have some warmth while scrubbing away the indigo ink and any sweat and grim she collected in the last few days.

Still, Charlotte did not feel clean while slipping the homemade dress over her under chemise and tied bodice.  If free to run around the homestead, she would have wandered to the running large stream with its many ponds that poured off the Southern Hills and properly washed away a week’s worth of stench and dead skin.  Alas, basic washing hygiene was a luxury that only occurred at most once a week even in the middle of a hot Fereldan summer.

Two quick tugs of the thin rawhide strings under each armpit tightened the homemade dress to Charlie’s chest and stomach.  What wool stuffing she placed in the bodice quickly disappeared, her effort to have round, perky breasts lost under all the fabric.  Forever flat chested, she concluded.  Still the paisley fabric front to the square-cut neckline still highlighted she was a thin but wiry woman.

As she combed her blonde strains to braid, then into a braided bun, Charlie felt the dust her quick wash missed.  Straw danced out of the hair from her flat stuffed pillow the night before.  She was allergic to chicken and goose feathers, and expensive cotton and wool was needed elsewhere.  So, Charlotte used straw stuffing for a mattress and pillow.  One negative she always lamented about herself was that she had resin oily hair that made her appear unkempt.  For the few years she had short bangs that just reached her brow, the hair stuck together within a few bells, the grease and sweat along her brow acting like extra adhesive horse glue.  Thank goodness she allowed the front bangs to grow around her face instead to minimize the disgusting look.  When clean, her blonde stringy strains puffed and did their own affairs.  Her waves disallowed straightness, but were not bound enough to be tight curls.  She will be forever be damned with bland stringy wavy loose hair.

Charlotte’s main facial heart shape and hair expressions demonstrated she was definitely _not_ a Rutherford.  The fact stared back at her via the shined metal wall mount she utilized that late morning as a mirror.  Mia and Rosalie always complained about their tight curls that trapped fingers like wound coils.  Alas, they never had to strain to just appear nice for a festival or ceremony.  All they did was tie their curls back and poof, perfect.  Charlotte used more mixtures and poultices just to look clean and put together, let alone ready for a ball or gathering.

Thankfully, this was not a fun ball or festival.  As soon as Charlie woke with the roosters, she tasted the timid and sober air surrounding the homestead.  As she wandered the village and hills days before Cullen’s arrive, the scholar felt the shifting temperatures and nostalgic mood.  However, now it was thick like syrup hanging off tree branches and roofs.

All Soul’s Day had arrived.

To farmers, it was a signal that the summer was half or nearly over.  For the rolling hills of South Reach, autumn would arrive in the next month or so and slowly shift the temperatures as winter migrated north to the Waking Sea.  Ferelden turned colder than the rest of Thedas quite quickly.  The holiday once celebrated for the old god Dumat invited the shifting seasons, a reminder the lush trees and bountiful crops will soon be dead, much like the lost relatives, friends, and the Maker’s beloved Andraste.  If they wished to survive the freezing winters, they must collect and preserve all foodstuff that they could now before the heavy snows fell. 

The last few years’ holidays were more traumatic.  The darkspawn Corypheus had served the old god Dumat, one of several magisters who invited the Blight to the physical world and turned the Golden City black.  Villagers commented that during the war, people wanted to mourn for those dying throughout southern Thedas, but they feared if they upheld All Soul’s Day, they would praising the darkspawn magister as well.  Those feelings have since past.  The residents focused on those who fell in the Mage-Templar War, Corypheus’ Godhood War, and now at the hands of the Inquisition’s power grab.  Ferelden survived the conflicts again and again, forever showing the world they are not barbaric and uncivilized, but strong and proud people that the Orlesian occupation, a Blight, Loghain’s Civil War, Chantry conflicts, and a darkspawn magister cannot annihilate.  Although the kingdom was weak after so many atrocities, Charlotte knew Orlais or Navarra would think thrice before taking the humble kingdom as an easy conquest.  Just…too many stubborn hilljacks ready to ram a club up their rectums.

Yet, as Charlotte slipped on a pair of circle stamped earrings and her husband’s wedding ring necklace around her ivory neck, she remembered they were so few civilians left to celebrate the kingdom’s successes.  Before arriving in South Reach, Charlotte witnessed not many workers and craftsmen survived throughout the different regions.   Merchants rarely travelled the bare roads, already knowing most people had no coin to spare and dangers lurked around many corners.  The Dalish clans moved out of the kingdom, too likely to be harassed and harmed by the general population and blighted lands.  Those who were able bodied at the time of the Breach’s opening joined the Inquisition.  Many of those same men and women came back maimed or forever disabled mentally and/or physically from the multiple wars.  Even the weakened Chantry held little sway over the Fereldan people, still rebounding from losing so many progressive clerics at the Conclave or having no physical places to preach.

Those people who did not heeds the Herald’s call had their lives turned upside down by raging rogue templars, power hungry mages, Venatori, poisoned red templars, confused Grey Wardens, and roaming darkspawn.  Many lands and homes were lost.  People were displaced.  All four races of Thedas suffered great losses, while the land will never fully recover.  If the Western Approach was any indication of what the Blight can do to a tarnished land, most regions in the Bannorn, Calon, and South Reach will remained uninhabited for the next five ages.  Dwarves remained worried about the implausible idea that fabled titans were waking.  The Avvar clan fought one of their own gods imprisoned by the first Inquisitor.  The last decade or so has not been kind to this great land.

And it was only going to get worse.

Charlotte huffed and rolled her sky blue eyes.  These people’s Maker was a right arse, to quote Roane;s remarks and slander about any religion’s supreme being.  On this specific point, Charlotte would agree, _if_ there was even a true god here.  The researcher shook her hand, shoving the strings of theories and thoughts back into her mental abyss.

Somehow, eastern South Reach was spared the blunt of these troubles.  Alas, the same cannot be said about Redcliffe and the Hinterlands.  No wonder Arl Teagan thundered and raved at the Exalted Council, although his past countered his own arguments continuously.  How can a man who fought beside the elven Hero and his nephew King of Ferelden during the Blight rant about Grey Wardens so harshly.  King Alistair is still a Grey Warden, but the arl criticized the Inquisition for allowing the order to almost come under Corypheus’ control and sacrifice the Divine.  Charlie did not agree with Inquisitor Cadash’s decision to exile the wardens from Orlais or leave, of all people, Warden Carver Hawke in the Fade. 

Fereldan nobles had little to say themselves for doing the same actions ages ago.  She was not defending Edric Bathar Cadash though.  After the Inquisition’s actions during the war, there were so few Grey Wardens in Orlais and Ferelden that if a new archdemon arose, it would have full range of the two kingdoms before the Weisshaupt wardens even knew or dreamed about the monster via the Calling.

Tomas the Barn Cat jumped through the side window and stared at Charlotte.  He recalled her from her wandering thoughts.  She rubbed her nose with her palm, trying to right her brain back to her required task.  She was late and only had a specific allotted time to honor this holiday.  When providing herself a small breakfast of porridge and ram milk, she had heard the Rutherfords leave on the family cart for town.  There were Chantry services throughout the day for both those lost souls and for Andraste specifically.  Lord Bryland would be providing a lunch time gathering in the town square.  Charlie did not expect everyone, including Cullen, to be back until dusk.  Still, Charlotte did not want to be caught walking around.  She already risked her identity being discovered just by tales the villagers will say and Phoebe’s rambling tongue, even if lying referred to as a chicken.  Her absence at services will already fuel local rumors about the scholar for being a Witch of the Wilds or lunatic.  Hopefully, the townspeople will be indifferent about the crazed woman the Rutherfords fed and clothed like a stray dog. 

The scholar’s mind wandered aloft again while fastening her ring belt and skirt loops.  She knew she would be walking through brambles on her personal journey, so she slipped the outside skirts through the hanging loops connected to the leather belt.  Her husband hunting knife hung off her right hip in its leather sheath.  Roane still protected her even in death.  But her digressing mind did not stay on that thought.  Instead, a sickening situation crossed her synapses.

Maybe Cullen did not want to come home _because_ of the sober holiday.

Charlotte panicked and searched behind her for her desk chair.  She started seeing white as her heart jumped in her throat.  Once finding the seat and accidently yanking the arm out of the wood socket _again_ , the overwhelmed woman quickly sat down and took several deep breaths.  Tomas just gawked at her confused himself by her shifting mood.  His yellow eyes just blinked and head tilted right as the woman glanced at everything, concerned she caused more harm than good.

Many Fereldans blamed the Inquisition for the troubles throughout the kingdom.  Red lyrium grew out of caves and rocks, infecting the water and land.  Venatori controlled one of the most powerful shipping ports for years without retribution.  Many clerics and noblemen died at Haven both from the Breach’s opening and Corypheus’ night ambush.  Lastly, many healthy Fereldans lost their lives fighting in the multiple wars.

And there will be Cullen surrounded by these accusers in this already tense situation.

Add fiery Branson to the mix and talk about a living nightmare.

Oh nelly, Charlie, what did she get this fragile and broken man into!?

It was as if Roane was called to Charlotte’s anxious side right then.  A peace fell over the woman as each long and steady breath brought her back to her senses.  Charlie cannot control others’ actions.  Roane told her that constantly while alive.  Once again, he handled urgent situation far better than she ever could. 

While many villagers will be hostile, most will keep their peace until behind closed doors.  Very few townspeople had a backbone to speak those harsh insults, especially on a sober holiday of mourning and remembrance.  No one in town had the gall to approach possibly the most courageous and famous (or infamous depending) templar knight in Thedas. 

Furthermore, almost every villager never caused trouble with the Rutherfords.  Mia was tough and even _more_ brutal with her tongue lashing while pregnant.  The only reason why some villagers still could walked fine was because Gareth reeled in his wife before she busted a knee cap with a fence post.   As much as Branson despised his brother, he still supported family.  This was a venture important to Mia and Charlie, so he too would actively engage in any riffraff.  Lastly, no one could say anything rude in front of Rosalie and the children.  Rosalie was always sweet and caring to anyone, including those who slandered her in past, specifically former suitors who could not win her innocent passionate heart.  She shared her bounties openly and without prejudice.  The youngest Rutherford believed everyone could be good and kind if given proper care and happiness.

Blush creeped across Charlotte’s cheeks with one last conclusion.  If the artists’ portraits were correct, no woman will even speak a word when they see the eldest Rutherford son.  Even how Charlie had seen him, she had to fan herself with parchment a few times.  If he continued his templar training as Charlie assumed, by dusk that evening a new Cullen Rutherford fan club will be formed in town and every single lady between the ages of sixteen and eighty will be fighting for his affections.  Oh to be a little bird on the tavern sign watching that.  It will take the village men a few days to digest that fact.  With that tantalizing upper lip scar that every woman in the arling will want to lick and suck, every single man will have yet another reason to hate former Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford.

Oh stop that, Charlotte!

With that panic attack avoided, Charlie quickly finished her other duties.  She grabbed a linen handkerchief, placed a few pieces of toasted bread, dried berries, and cheese inside.  She poured some mead into a small glass jar and recorked the top so it would not spill in her side pouch.  Lastly, she snatched the hollow druffalo horn from a bookshelf and slid it into a hidden skirt pocket.

Placing her lunch in her large belt pouch rest over her back left hip, Charlie wandered over to her bed and sat to put on her shiny oiled leather boots.  She removed the wool socks inside and slipped on a pair of snug cotton pair she had sown together a few days before.  She had yet to sew her initials in the seam.  An old memory flickered across her mind with the future task bringing a small grin to her lips. 

It was to be very warm today despite the sober and cool mood everyone had.  It was the beginning of the end of warm days, so Charlie wanted her feet to enjoy the last few times before wool became her whole life again.  Once fully laced and ready, the woman’s hand flicked to her desk chair.  On the back sat her soft hand-loomed hood with large embroidered flowers and wheat designs around the edge and down the back, a celebration gift from the Rutherford for one year on the homestead.  It sat on her head and around her shoulders, denoting a woman in mourning rather a need for warmth.  She let the ties hang loose on either side of her chin, needing the freedom to get through this troubling day.

How much will she cry this year? 

How many more tears will she cry for a life that will never be hers or her family’s again?

 

* * *

 

The winding path through the pine and birch trees confused most people.  However, the many trips Charlotte took to her sacred spot, it was one of the few times she avoided tripping over her own feet.  Yes, her boot heels caught on a random tree roots, sometimes the same ones several times, but at least she would not face plant into the dirt anymore.  The grass and brush no long grew in her way, only the occasional bramble or wild grape vine would catch the skirt helm or ankle.  It all just required Charlie to place her palm on each passing tree, feeling the coarse bark against her fingertips.

The noon sun streamed through the lush tree top, sprinkling sunrays over the forest floor to guide the clumsy woman to her destination.  Random samplings and undergrowth sucked in the sunshine to grow as much as possible before the end of summer.  Animals snacked and hid under bushes to avoid being hunted or starved when the winter snows drove them into hibernation.  However, most halla, fennec, and rabbits ignored Charlie, used to her presence after two years wandering the game path.

Behind rotten fallen logs would be the scholar’s prize.  Usually a water source encouraged moss and mushroom growth for the rare flower.  Charlotte was selective when she picked each Andraste’s Grace, only four total each major journey to avoid driving the rare white, pink, and peach flower into extinction.  It was so much like her personal favorite, the four large petals with its fury tongue centers.  Its light scent also assuaged the woman to the point she attempted making it a perfume.  Alas, the flower was too fragile for the process, usually decaying or molding before distillation.  Still, Roane appreciated Charlotte’s attempt to smell like her old self again.

To smell like a life forever lost.

Trickling tears burned behind Charlotte’s glassy eyes as the tree grove opened to a small sanctuary clearing unknown by most, even the Rutherford children, to keep it pure and respectful.  Charlotte selected the spot on accident, running through the wood and blocked by the ancient elven rock walls and arches from continuing further.  Although not elven, she respected the history and others cultures.  The more she learned about that ancient world, the more she wished she could speak Elvhen and meet a Dalish clan.  Alas, they would avoid her, a human who might use their culture and beliefs against them.  Even seeing what Charlie did in that open space might anger then.

Maybe not, hopefully.

On her first few trips, she took a hatchet and saw.  Charlie removed all the old growth choking the remaining carved stones and architecture.  Most of the ancient building was gone or weathered away, but much like the ancient mysterious ruins she once studied, they still existed and made their presence known.  It was the least Charlotte to do to preserve this long and lost heritage, the same world Fen’Heral wished to reclaim yet again.

The first salty tear streamed down Charlotte’s flushed cheek once her sky blue eyes flickered to the center.  The samplings had grown a few inches since her last excursion.  She knew the elderberry bush would enjoy this spot with its moist and saturated earth and plenty of sun.  Next year, berries will surely blossom from the fruiting large bush.  Branson already promised she would show her how to make elderberry wine, her next offering on the next All Soul’s Day.

Meanwhile, the miniature red maple looked as though a horned animal rubbed against its sickly trunk again, removing the few branches that sprouted this year.  The deterrents Charlie placed made no difference.  Still, her body drifted her towards the struggling tree and cleaned up the damage.  The maiden reset the bramble vine fencing protecting the remaining branches.  Even the hardwood shaft she placed and tied to the thin trunk needed assistance fulfilling its job efficiently.  Maker, if she ever found the blasted animal that damaged it… 

Once adjusting her protective barrier, Charlotte kneeled by the two mounds below each plant.  She pulled off her hood to see better, her shaking hand gently brushing fallen sticks, leaves, and other objects off the mounds.  She placed the four Andraste’s Graces on the grass mounds, two for each.  One lump was longer than the other, denoting who it signified.  It had been awhile since her last visit.  She came the day Gareth told her Cullen’s thin letter arrived with his last refusal.  She came and complained to the mound, wishing for his guidance on what to do.  It was there she figured out her All Soul’s Day guilt trick feeling rotten for using it against the stubborn ex-templar.  She did not want to do it of course, the plan too devious for even her.  However, Charlie was out of options and rightly done with silly games.

“Howdy…”  Her meek coo rang through the open grove and slightly wave.  “The grass is getting thicker.”  Her fingers twirled around a random grass leaf growing over the mound beside a flower petal.  “I will bring the hand sickle to shorten it a little.  You and your hand sickles…and yes, before you say a word, I _promise_ to wear leather gloves.  So, I cut myself twice on them, but if you weren’t so obsessed with sharpening stuff, I wouldn’t need stitches as often.”

Breaking the grass leaf, she lifted it to her mouth.  Pressing her thumbs against either side, she blew.  A whizzing whistle echoed through the grove and woods.  A satisfied grin graced her lips.  Her sky blue eyes glanced at the elderberry’s mount.  “Oh, don’t give me that.  You did that all the time, usually scaring me to death.”  Dropping the leaf, her other hand caressed the small mount below the maple tree.  “She appreciated it though.  While my heart jumped in my throat, she danced in my womb only spurring you on until I was so nauseous, not even pickled ginger calmed me.”

The scholar’s eyes fell, while she took long deep breaths.  It was not time to cry yet.  She still had much to do.  Her shaking left hand left the small mount and reached into her large belt pouch.  The other grasped the druffalo horn and mead bottle.  “Fermented honey spit for you this year, Roane.  You and your honey liquors.  Branson wants to try mixing the elderberries with the honey next time.  He drank a bottle with the combination a few months ago in town and fell in love.  If officials every looked at his cellar, all they would see is fermenting moonshine and mead everywhere.  Since he doesn’t sell it—legally—there are no taxes.  I keep telling him he’ll get caught, but I think even Lord Bryland will look the other way.  If Branson’s liquor services died, the tavern’s economy would collapse, and South Reach’s people would die from the collective hangover.  My, you two would have been thick as thieves…”

Charlie uncorked the mead bottle and poured half the mixture into the horn.  “Now, I would never offer a child mead, even when Rowan whined last Satinalia.  However, since this is a memorial ceremony, you can have a spill.”  Charlie motherly warned to the small mound.  Tipping the horn just a little, she allowed a few dribbles of mead to spill on the grassy mound.  “No more.”  Her glossy orbs shifted to her husband’s grave.  “And you!  This is all you’re getting.  I have to drink some too, even though you and I both know I will be tipsy as the Void walking home.”  The last of horned mead spilled on Roane’s grave.  She moved her outstretched hand over the mound to spread the liquor.  “Even though I know your ashes aren’t under there, Roane, at least wherever you are, you have been honored and happily _drunk_.”[1]

Two more tears trickled from her eyes.  “I keep wondering if your body was just left there or if anyone nearby had the decency to burn your body.  Even if you were eaten by bears or rodents, you still got your burial wish:  to return back to the earth.   The circle of life.  Still, I never felt comfortable about all that, and I told you there was no way I would unceremonious dump you in the desert.  Roane, you were always so unreasonable.  Yes, I don’t mind if my body is dissected, but it is on behalf of learning and science!  Maybe that Inquisition surgeon knows a university who defies the Chantry to expand scientific knowledge.  Mia knows to give them my medical book in that case.  No bloody way I am allowing the four humour theory to continue!  Morons…”

A piece of blonde bangs fell in Charlotte’s face.  “It’s getting difficult again, Ro.  Rosalie said he might leave tomorrow…even before I speak to him.  Mia and she have a plan, but if it doesn’t work…everything I hold onto is for not.  I’ve done nothing here.  All of the siblings’ rants to keep me going won’t matter anymore.”  Charlie pulled her small lunch from the pouch and refilled the mead horn.  “Having this knowledge is a burden.  While I don’t fear death, I don’t want to be tortured to the inch of my life.  I think you would rise like the undead and start stabbing people again.”  She munched on a dried berry.  “Do I say something tonight?  Do I come out of the gate and say ‘Hey, I’m the creepy girl who has been obsessing over you for nigh two years and wants save your life!’  Yes, I know you have done that, but I’m not you, Roane.”

This time a toasted bread popped into Charlotte’s mouth.  It was very hard from days sitting out by the fire, so the scholar took a long drink from the mead horn.  A few gulps burned her throat, but calmed her nerves.  “What am I thinking?!  Something so out of nowhere would ruin everything-“

And just as Charlie stated that, an orange mass streaked by her kneeled position.  Her blonde head wiped to follow Tomas the Barn Cat bouncing back into the forest bush.  “What has gotten-“

Then, all she saw was grey-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The offering ceremony Charlotte is conducting is called libation, an ancient practice for deities and the dead dating back to ancient Egypt. It is still conducted even in modern day in some cultures and holidays. This is where the phrase “pour one out” comes from. The use of a horn references Norse and Celtic traditions of drinking, sometimes in honor of family as the mead horn is passed to each generation.


	5. The Free Labor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: "Guinevere's Tears" by Enaid
> 
> Charlotte is a horrible person, and she DEFINITELY knows it after this chapter. Ugh. I cannot write a nice fluffy first meeting. No, it had to go all wrong. Enjoy?

There are many times throughout Charlotte’s twenty-nine years that she severely embarrassed herself.  There was the time in choir when she bobbed her head with the tune and saw the rest of the choir doing it to her horror later they were mocking her.  Her first true dance involving waltzing with a young boy obsessed with her.  Unfortunately, this awkward dance occurred right after she discovered her clothing was stained by her menstrual blood, her second of her entire life.  A shawl covered the blood thankfully, but still she had to dance with the boy so he would allow her to leave the blasted hall. 

Then there was when the clumsy blonde was selected to be a good friend’s bridemaid.  At the rehearsal in the nave, Charlotte got extremely sick and later discovered she was allergic to olives after eating a dozen.  Somehow, olive oil never bothered her so the discovery was quite peculiar.  She puked all over another friend’s bedroom, while essentially seizing from poisoning.  She arrived at the wedding looking like death claimed her.  Still, her marrying friend allowed her to walk down the aisle before burying Charlie’s ashen body at the reception somewhere behind the grand hall.[1]

It was those moments that flashed across Charlotte’s mind with her legs flipped over her head, showing the whole grove her linen chemise and tied undergarments that barely covered her rump.  Her tear-stained face felt like a druffalo walked over it, while her chest was compressed by her knees and another mass drooling down on her.  She did not see the form through her homemade dress, but she knew what it was.

A grey mabari.

Of all days…

Was the world that cruel?

“…get down!  Now!”[2]

Yes, yes it was.

Charlotte will meet him with her skirts and legs flipped over her head, her behind clearly up in the air, and drooled upon like that damn druffalo incident.

Can a person die from embarrassment?  Charlotte prayed to whatever deity listening that they strike her down by her lost family to avoid showing her flushed face to anyone ever again.  Her death would avoid her burning ears listening to the Chantry mother preaching to the mourners about how the Rutherfords’ lunatic died with her arse for all to see like brothel girl inviting the whole arling for a ride!

Alas, like many prayers before, no supreme being emerged to save face.  Instead, the massive mabari bit her skirts and pulled downward to display her crimson face to the very man who plagued Charlie’s thoughts nigh two years.  The war hound stayed by the horrified woman as she lowered her legs and shifted her hem enough for whatever modesty remained.  Stringy blonde hair filtered Charlie’s vision as she slowly peaked around her.  A bit of drool dripped into the opening eye, smacking it shut again as it burned the sensitive organ.  Charlie’s muddied and slick hand rubbed it unconsciously, introducing the spilled mead to the socket, only making a disastrous situation far worse.  The embarrassed woman whined and rolled like a mangy mutt in the grove trying to use anything clean nearby to remove the toxins blurring her vision.  More leaves, grass stains, and dirt muddied her pretty dress and ivory skin.

Then a piece of mended cloth touched her exposed wrist right around where the old rope burn scars peaked out from her sleeve.

Charlotte froze.  In her rolling, she had ignored the stomping boots approaching her position.  Her mind dwelled on her lament rather than the possibility her query walking closer to her already ragged body.  Instinctively, she rolled into a ball, away from the soft cloth, likely clean and an offering of assistance.  No, she will not open her cloudy eyes.  She will not recognize she had been a fool in front of a man she desperately needed to trust and believe her.  Oh, she instinctively swore at Roane’s mocking laugh somewhere in Fade or ether at the sight just a few paces from his grave.  Only he would see the humor of the situation.  Alas, he was not there to set the matter straight.  No, Charlie must do it all alone.  _Again_.

“My deepest apologies, miss.”  A baritone husky voice boomed behind her.  Her right ear immediately perked at the majestic tone.  The rhythm of his speech was angelic and soft, though rough from years of likely yelling and commanding respect.  No accounts detailed the strain on his vocal cords repeatedly ordering recruits to properly use a shield or when a trebuchet should fire at what calibration.  Mentally, Charlie cackled at that particular thought.  Still, the tone was rich and warming.  Instantly, Charlotte’s embarrassment shifted to content.  Her heart felt aflutter, her red face now crimson for a very different reason.

For bloody sakes, Charlie!

He continued with his apologetic explanation, likely taking Charlotte’s stillness as an offense rather than embarrassment and blushing.  There goes first impressions.  “He is still a pup.  Barely over a year old, I wager.  We’re still working on commands and ignoring distractions.  He won’t even dodge a fireball if threatened.”  His voice shifted away from her position towards where Tomas the Barn Cat raced into the woods.  “No matter what I do, he cannot _not_ chase cats.”  He exhaled deeply.  “If it is any consolation, miss, his and I’s greeting was quite similar involving a litter of feral cats.  Instead of a grove, it was a Val Royeaux back alley.  My uniform was covered in _Orlesian_ drunkards’ urine and spoiled vegetables _right_ before seeing the very fashion conscious Divine Victoria.”

Of course he spat ‘Orlesian.’

Charlotte could not help but giggle at the mental image.  While her knowledge supported he met the hound during the Exalted Council, it definitely did not explain the initial meeting.  Her giggles rewarded her an iconic “Maker’s breath…” from the man looming over her.  She imagined his face matched her own except for the spray of mead and mud.  Likely, a broken red maple stick adorned her frizzy hair now.  That blast damn horned beast will pay!  Still, her heart repeated its heavy thumps and his embarrassed phrase.

Until her mind woke up and quizzed, _What are you going to do now?  Explain it all…?!_

Charlie gulped, thankful she has yet to say a word.  She cannot tell him her purpose yet.  No, this first meeting was all wrong.  That meant she would have to lie.

Oh hells and bells, Charlie is absolutely _screwed_! 

The widow could never lie, usually blurting the truth once caught.  Roane knew that wiggle her hips made when she was stating a lie, usually to hide the truth about a surprise name day party or what she got him as a present.  Yet, here she laid on the Rutherford homestead confounded by a former commander linked to one of best spymasters in all of Thedas.  Leliana must have taught the War Council basic lying tells so that they survived the Empress’ Winter Ball and the Exalted Council.  His gigantic war hound probably could smell lies somehow.  This ex-templar also knew such behavior from apprehending mages or confronting families hiding their mage children from the templars.

Charlotte will surely have a sword in her throat by the end of this conversation.

Then alarm rushed over her with his next statement.  “Why are these graves here than not nearby the Chantry?”

It seemed odd for a usually secretive man to come out and just ask such a personal question.  However if his mind worked as she believed it did, his investigation led him to quickly fill in the gaps.  Charlotte slowly rolled to her lower legs, kneeling on them away from the man who still held out the comforting handkerchief.  Even with her sky blue eyes still pressed tightly, she felt the soft cotton bat her muddy cheek.

The somber topic chose Charlotte’s behavior.  Submissive and humble.  “Non-believers, me lord.”  One would be submissive at graves as a sign of mourning.  He is used to people obeying his every order, especially submissive mages.  Be uneducated and thick accented, the opposites of her true form.  If he every suspected the Rutherfords lied about a chicken designing inventions around the homestead, he would never equate such innovations from an uneducated widowed refugee.  Right?

The crushing dry leaves behind Charlie denoted he was studying the surroundings.  “Dalish elves?”  The nearly ruins must have given him that idea.

“No, me Lord.”  Charlotte drew out her word ending like she would have done as a young woman.  Ferelden changed her speech patterns greatly in the last two years.  “I thought the place was pretty for me family.”

“Oh.”  Was his reply.  Then his pitch deepened.  Charlie felt the scowl burning the back of her head.  “You know this is private land, correct?”

Now the lie.  This would make or break her quickly forming cover.  The damning consequences if it worked rolled through her mind a mile a minute.  “The mistress said I could keep their ashes here because the town wouldn’t want us refugee heretics among the _good_ people.”

“Mistress?”

“Mistress Rutherford, me Lord.”  Oh please get this all out right.  “She took me in and lets me stay in trade of working the fields and feeding the livestock.”  Charlotte glanced over her shoulder through the stringy hair.  Thank the world for her unruly oily hair now masking her face and lying eyes.  He towered over her, his shaking hand on his sword hilt ready and poised to slay an adversary.  He could probably slice her clean through in a second if provoked.  The mabari panted beside his left leg, watching for his next command.  The massive hound could snap her neck like a twig.  Charlie could resemble the sickly red maple marking her child’s grave in just moments.  “I’m all that’s left.  No home, no family.  Mistress Rutherford feeds me and lets me live in one of the old buildings away from the main house.  I ask for little a-and work twice as hard while she’s heavy with kids again.” 

His breathing shifted to shock and confusion.  No, Mia Rutherford would never keep a person like a servant or slave, especially a non-believer refugee.  However, Charlotte banked on the fact this man knew little about his family just as they wondered about him the last twenty years.  Furthermore, Mia was heavy with twins and would need the extra hands especially now.  The partial lie—because Charlie did assist her in such a state—undid whatever lie Mia and Rosalie attempted to keep their lost brother around.  However, Charlotte assumed the exaggerated pregnancy pains did not keep the ex-templar nearby today, especially if he wandered the forest during midday instead of being at the All Soul’s Day gatherings.

Sensing his handkerchief hand falling away from her and his breath evening out again, Charlotte turned the questioning on its head.  “Who are you, me Lord?  Mistress Rutherford and her family are in town.  If you are a poacher, I-I’ll call the guard!  You hear!  E-even our here they will gut you!”

All the heat shifted back at the man behind her.  He released his iron grip on his sword hilt and waved his hands.  “N-no, I-I’m Mia’s brother-“

“Mester Branson lives in town!”  Charlotte countered with a huff.  Say your name, darn it!  Charlotte cannot state it without you introducing yourself first, you stubborn knight!

“N-no, her _other_ brother.  Cullen!”

“Mester Cullen would never come here.”  Charlotte’s tone turned somber.  “He hates them all.  Won’t even come home for anything, me heard.”  Guilt the man with the sword, Charlie!  Good way to get your head chopped off.  Yet, guilt was what brought Cullen here, and guilt was the only thing that could keep him here until the truth came out.  Charlie’s soul felt as slimy as the mabari drool dribbling down her cheek.  Her tears resumed, her own shame tearing through her heart. 

Another “Maker’s breath…” exited his scarred mouth.  “Yes…that’s true, but I came home now for the holiday.”

“Why now?”

Cullen exhaled again.  “I had no more excuses.  I’ll be gone by morning anyway.”

“If you’re here because of the holiday, why aren’t you in town?  Why aren’t you with your family like I’m with mine?”

Compunction was all this man reacted with, thus she must give it to save Cullen’s life.

“I-I escorted my sister home.  Her back and feet hurt with the pregnancy.  Rosalie and she are getting the children cleaned up.  The little one, I think her name is Phoebe, became sick at the feast.”  Charlotte winced at the news.  Her poor lil Phoebe.  She probably ate one too many cookies behind her mother’s back.  “I…well, I don’t do well with children.  They give me a headache, and well…”  He waved to the surroundings.  “I took a walk.”

“Some brother you are…”  Charlotte needed him to stay.  Oh nelly, she felt horrible saying these things, but it meant life or death…  “Leaving her to do everything.  Even with me around, we might not get the harvest done in time.  Even if we get most done before the snows, we won’t make enough coin to supplement what rotted.  The family is already cut thin…To think those twins born while we’re starving.  Mistress Rutherford might refuse me to say…”  Her voice wavered, meek and terrified.  “I’ll be left out in the cold.  I-I’ll die.”  Charlie was being over dramatic, but to get the point across required such acting.  However, the next statement was very true.  Charlotte knew her circumstances.  With a dirty hand wave to the graves before her.  “No one wants a barren widow…”

The grey mabari whined at the conclusion, stepping forward and nudging Charlotte with his muzzle.  He licked her face somewhat clean of mead and dirt, yet drool dripped from her frayed hair.  Still, Charlotte kept her face and front masked from the man looming over her.  She did see his right hand rub his sunburnt neck barely covered with a linen tunic and embroidered jerkin.  He did such movements when embarrassed and humbled.

With a deep sigh, the ex-templar lowered his head just within Charlie’s peripheral vision.  The afternoon sun blinded her and masked his face, the featured she yearned to study for years.  A few stubborn curls broke from his meticulous hair style.  The artists got that right:  his locks were golden blond partly bleached from bells in the hot sun training recruits and ordering troops.  The waves and curls reminded Charlie of a halo crown adorning an honorable and beloved king like King Alistair Theirin.  All her will kept her from standing and brushing her fingers through the pomade hair.  She assumed it was probably healthy and silky like the other Rutherford children.  Oh nelly, can she _not_ sexually harass this man during their first encounter?! 

Still, Charlotte kept herself from looking at his face even through the sun’s rays, and he hers.  With her dirty manipulation, she had no right to gaze upon the physical face of a famous knight whose name and face were synonymous with handsome and courageous. 

Then that rich husky baritone broke Charlie’s wandering considerations.  “What’s your name?”

Oh.

Oh _shit_.

Charlie and Charlotte was spelled similarly, but did not sound the same.  After all, Charlie is typically a boy’s nickname for Charles, which was why the children of her own youth mocked her all the time.  Gibson was a strange surname in Ferelden, so that means… “Charlotte Gibbs, me Lord.”  Gibbs was the raw form of her husband’s surname, dropping the ‘son of’ suffix.  If Cullen heard the villagers’ whispers about the lunatic on the homestead, hopefully there was enough differences between the rumors and the woman before him to hide the truth.

“Miss Gibbs, I doubt my sister will put you out in the cold.  I will see to it myself that will not happen.”

_Hook.  Line.  Sinker._

Cullen Rutherford’s loyalty streak saves the day _again._

Oh nelly, Charlotte felt disgusting, not for the mud and dog salvia adorning her face, but the lies and deceit rambled to coil this broken man around her pinky finger.  _It’s for his benefit.  He will die if you don’t!_   Ashamed with herself, Charlotte only nodded and glanced back at the graves of her husband and daughter.  “Thankie, me Lord.”  She slowly climbed to her feet and straightened her skirts.  “If the mistresses are home, I must assist them with lunch and dinner.  If you excuse me…”

Cullen held out his hand, blocking her from pivoting away.  “Wait!  Let me guide you back.  These woods are not safe and actually…are quite confusing.”  His own hand rubbed his neck.  “I’ve gotten lost about four times now.  I feel like I’m back in the Arbor Wilds.  Just missing the red templars and Venatori.”  He giggled at the remark, hopeful to raise a happy sound from the lying widow.

Always the gentlemen.

Charlie, you are an absolutely prime evil.

Yet, Charlie cringed at the name ‘Venatori’.  He hands instinctively rubbed her stomach and rope burned wrists.  The former knight beside her noticed the shudder and gulped immediately, shutting up his angelic chuckles in the tense air.

Charlotte shook her head, keeping her sky blue eyes to the ground.  For once, her string unruly waves worked in her favor.  “No, me Lord.  Likes of me shouldn’t be seen with noble men like you.”

A long exhale and rough undertones rumbled from his chest.  “If you truly knew what I have done, you would say otherwise.”

The statement shot a painful arrow into Charlotte’s heart, her sky blue eyes squeezing shut again.  It told her everything without even gazing into his iconic amber eyes.  He was still filled with self-reproach, likely meaning he did more he was ashamed of while with the Inquisition than atoning for past prejudices.  If the better option had occurred, he would feel like he could move beyond his past demons to free other knights from their blue potion shackles.  No, he was shackled himself:  a sinking ship that will bash the gagged rocks on the shore if allowed to leave this homestead again without intervention.  _Charlotte’s_ intervention.

Alas, was Charlotte any better at the moment?  All the secrets and knowledge she concealed with lies to the one person who could have done something made her as terrible as Inquisition Cadash and Knight-Commander Meredith.  Even Knight-Commander Greagoir’s faults about sending him to Greenfell to be ‘re-wired’ seemed petty compare with her barbaric sins.  “I am but a stray mutt alive because a good family fed and clothed her.  No, me Lord.  You are better than I could ever be.  Excuse me.  Me mistress needs me.”

Charlotte pushed through his still outstretched arm and paced back towards the forest path.  She needed to leave.  Everything was muddled and more _fucked_ up than ever before.  All her plans dashed with her fearful lies that held all the truths.  She could have confessed and let his sword cut off her head.  At least she would have died at her husband and unborn child’s graves.  Her nightmare would finally be over.  She would be _free_ of this place again, think it all just a horrible fantasy dream.  Yet, she used that knight’s noble nature and guilt to string him to stay a little longer.  Damn it, Charlie.  You are the worst!  You have no right to look at him ever.  Hang your head in shame, you lout!  You will only dream and imagine of seeing of those amber eyes instead of seeing them physically in your presence!

“Wait!”  His rough baritone boomed in the grove.  “If you leave here, why did I never see you when I arrived?!”

Charlie froze, her mind picking the next lie instead of diverging the truth.  “Why would a sweet family want to share their table and reunion with a mere servant?  While here, me Lord, I hide and do my duties from your honorable sight.  That is all I can and will do.  To acknowledge me will only invite the town’s ire and slander.  Good day, me Lord…”

Before Cullen could respond, Charlie raced into the thick woods opposite her worn path, her boots tripping and hammering against the roots and bushes.  The more she thought about the conversation, the faster she ran.  Her weak legs burned and ached, her homemade dress torn on the trees and fallen branches.  One of her skirt loops fell in the chaos, lost to the vines and brambles.  Her braided bun broke free and collected leaves and kindling as she pushed through the bushes and overgrowth.  She avoided her craved path and utilized her instincts to discover her watermill cabin again.  Cullen cannot find her and question more.  Roane’s soul witnessed everything and probably scowled at his living husk of a wife.  Charlie might break and die much like her husband before his death. 

A panicked snowy scene flashed the woman back to that cold bitter night two years ago, holding her bleeding womb as the foreign calls from her husband’s murderers searched for their treasured prize.

Tears streamed down the widow’s face as she tripped and smacked her forehead on a large root.  After a few minutes face down in rotted wood and moss, Charlotte slowly regained half consciousness and leaned back on her kneeled legs.  Horror screamed across her cheekbones.  In her fall, she crushed one of the few Andraste’s Grace still surviving the marshy forest.  Her trembling hands touched the broken blooms and tattered furry tongue.  Once again she killed a soul, one she wanted to _trust_ her.  Every Andraste’s Grace she picked, she felt she was removing what remaining beauty was left in this war torn world.  Her mind could not forget how Leliana told the warden Hero of Ferelden about how her mother smelled like the rare flower when still alive.  Since finding the many blooms in the forest, Charlotte envisioned them as souls lost from so many mistakes and wrong course of action, many that can now be laid down at her own feet.  To honor her own dead, she killed more.  Instead, her death was certain to occur when the truth came out.  Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford takes lying as a great offense to both his honor and respect for others.

How was he friends with Leliana then?

Sobs and cries echoed through the dense forest.  Charlotte did not care if Cullen or anyone else heard her agony, her shame.  She must relieve for just a moment a bit of the burdens she carried and ignored since arriving in South Reach.  The bullshit lies buried her under more manure and waste just as the Rutherford siblings feared watching her throughout her extended stay.  Charlotte, ever in control somehow, broke immediately once meeting that broken man.  It was real, not a fantasy.  She was impacting _their_ lives, _those_ she admired and studied greatly.  The end was near, one of disbelief or certain death, but before the blade cuts her down, more lies and bullshit will spill from her lips just to buy her some time that might not make any difference.

_It happens when it happens.  Don’t push it.”_

Charlotte rubbed her snotty nose with her dirty palm.  Dear goodness, she hated that supposed sympathy.  She heard it for years waiting for the day her husband and she would finally conceive.  When healers told her that window was growing shorter each month, Charlotte shoved that damn advice away and took matters in her own hands.  That was when Roane lost his faith in their supreme being.  Actions relied on one’s self, not a mystical hallucination people worshipped waiting for the perfect moment.  That was Roane’s only true belief from that point forward.

With Roane’s death, the widow took that physical and realistic belief to heart.  Yet, allowing time to take the reins was her own choice regarding the Inquisition, counter-intuitive really.  She could not resume control over matters knowing it will surely kill her.  Everything must happen when it happens _now_.  Cullen must stay on that homestead until travel to Val Royeaux was impossible that, likely in the next month or so.  Only when the winter snow thawed eight months from now he will be free to leave and possible resume his dying fate at Lace Harding’s hands.  As soon as the temperatures dropped in South Reach, the researcher will know that he cannot run to that capital and die from taking that damn poison.

Now the lie established and introductions completed, Charlie needed to inform the siblings of changes.  With the crushed Andraste’s Grace smashed and tattered in her hands, she took out her husband’s hunting knife to cut the bloom from the stem.  The flower might be ruined now, but maybe she can make something beautiful out of this rare and brightening soul.  She bundled the petals and pistil with her useless leather belt loops that once held up her skirt.  She placed the important package into her large belt pouch for later attendance.  Just as Charlotte can utilize the established deceit to soften the blow to that former commander once the truth is revealed.

The sobs had stopped.  The tears dried on her cheeks, neck, and tattered dress.  The snot stopped mixing with the remaining hound drool.  Now, resolve and determination rolled through Charlotte.  Okay, what is the story now?  Uneducated refugee widow that lives in the old watermill away from the main house and serves the Rutherfords in return for food, clothing, and board.  That is essentially how Charlotte became part of the family anyway.  The woman stumbled to her feet, her head throbbing from her fall, but she ignored it.  Once Branson sees the likely bump, he is going to punch her brother, assuming the worse.  Her aching and malaise mind raced and planned her new assault.

One step forward, the ‘servant’ must write a note to Mia and Rosalie of the initial conversation.  Her submissive role explains why Cullen did not meet her with his arrival.  Another step, a stomp really, the family must treat her differently, not as the loving adopted sister they accepted as she learned the language, but as someone hired to assist around the homestead.  The Rutherfords would never have servants.  They were hard, self-sustaining workers that relied on themselves.  Yes, they hired laborers for the harvest, but primarily because the bounties the last few years have been massive thanks to Charlie’s irrigation system, the improved plows, composted soil, and rotation crop techniques.  They could treat her well, but just recognize they needed to be indifferent.  Oh nelly, Branson is not going to like that.

Now, multiple determined steps towards the main path.  She was just beyond the homestead’s fields.  She can race to her cabin, write the letter, and get it to the sisters before Cullen returned.  He surely got lost in the forest again.  Most people did.

The letter must tell of the guilt woe-is-me lie Charlotte crafted around the truth.  The other Rutherfords must play up their concerns for the harvest, especially to feed the new babies arriving by early winter.   While Charlotte knew there was enough food to sustain the family that winter, tragedy loomed constantly.  Rat infestation, rotting preserves, diseased food in the cellar, and many other troubles threatened all farmers of any sizeable plots.  If conflict arose, the arl can conscript foodstuffs from the farmers to feed his militia and knights. 

Maybe Cullen needed to see the flip side of what happens to a regular farming family when the call to arms arises.  As a templar, he never worried about food supplies because somehow the Chantry made sure their knights received the goods before the needy population.  A very different thing can be said about lyrium.

Which reminded Charlotte:  was Cullen already low on lyrium to need to leave just for more?  She shook that thought to the side at the moment.  That situation will be addressed after informing the family.  The Rutherfords must adjust because they can make or break Charlotte’s new cover.  While the adults will be fine—especially Branson at the opportunity of throwing the Chantry bullshit about serving their perfect addicted knights over the general population—the children will be a challenge.  Peter and Rowan can probably see the sensitive nature, but Phoebe will hang onto Charlie like her life depended on it.

And that poor girl was sick at the gathering.  Please not be her food allergies again.  Charlotte will have to act then to avoid that damn stupid healer in town from bleeding her for just being allergic to milk.  Charlie will murder that damn dope if that happens again.  A crushed herbs and some rest will do her little sweet pea wonders. 

Focus, Charlie.

Okay, the plan’s set.

With a long exhale entering the wheat and rye field, Charlotte’s resolve set in place.  She set the stage and wrote the plot.  Now, it was up to the actors to sell the audience on the great masquerade.

Nelly, she prayed her acting improved since her children choir’s play when she was nine…No more bobbing heads, Charlie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] These embarrassing stories? All real and happened to me! The wedding one was not olives, but rum (thus why [Marry Your Best Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13231014) Evie is allergic to rum). The period story is probably the longest night of my young adult night because that boy was IN LOVE with me and won’t take the hint. I had to be nice to him because he was my sister’s best friend’s lil’ brother…Ugh.
> 
> [2] Help name Cullen’s mabari! For the last week, I have been panicking over a great name for his majestic hound who will be so important to this tale. I was able to narrow it down to two names:
> 
> Gelgenig: The Ash Warrior leader a part of Andraste’s armies who spread her chants throughout the Avvar and in cultures Andraste could not risk. (Illustration of Cullen’s history knowledge and seeing the mabari “behind enemy lines” in Val Royeaux)
> 
> Harvard: Maferath’s childhood friend and one of Andraste’s generals of Avvar origins. He rejected Maferath after he handed his wife over to the Imperium. He couldn’t save her from the fires, but he did steal her ashes and brought them to Haven's Temple of Sacred Ashes. (Reflection of Cullen as a commander. Though he feels a failure after the Inquisition disbanded, he felt he could possibly serve somehow afterward, naming the hound that to remind himself constantly.)
> 
> If you want to put in your two cents, vote [here](https://www.poll-maker.com/poll2227058xE38d45d8-64). If you have a even better name, comment below! XD!


	6. Plus One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: "Fhir A Bhata" by Dirk Freymuth
> 
> I apologize in advance that this isn't the finest chapter I've edited. My brain isn't working today, so I will review it another day when I can actually think.
> 
> I have photos and examples of Charlie's hair and dress. I'll post and link it here when that is complete. I also have a great inspiring photo for how I imagine Branson.
> 
> I am changing a few things about the established written canon in this story. Nothing major, just the children's ages and where the Rutherfords live in South Reach. I will change the children's ages in the previous chapters and list them in the next chapter when it is important to the plot. 
> 
> The Arling of South Reach is HUGE, with most farms beyond the city proper. I considered where the Blight spread and tainted the soil. Lothering was never rebuilt because of the taint. With both facts in mind, that means travelling to South Reach's capital would take a full day by horse and cart. I am utilizing [this map](https://www.deviantart.com/rubecso/art/Ferelden-Map-Detailed-722041354) to determine where they live. (Awesome established map! Check it out!) I decided they live between Stanwick and Kethstow within the Bannorn of South Reach northeast of the capital. There is a reason why its specific. It will be explained in the upcoming chapters. I can't decide which village Branson's smith is located.
> 
> Lastly, with overwhelming support, you all voted Harvard will be Cullen's mabari's name. Thank you all who voted and assisted me. I've decided Charlie will call him Harry, which makes Cullen groan. The mabari responds better by Harry than Harvard, which just makes it more hilarious.
> 
> If you have any questions or questions, please let me know in the comments below!

The three knocks at the old water mill door nearly shocked Charlotte like a lightning bolt and bounce out of her mended chair.  Nuts, bread, and parchment flew in all directions as her knee kicked the table’s underside.  Its contents sprayed like confetti in all directions.  Charlotte did not want to eat her meager dinner of nuts, hardtack, jerky, and mead on her straw bed, so she sat carefully on the broken chair at her desk when the visitor knocked.  She thought she had cleared enough parchment, books, and her lying stand so her crumbling meal would not ruin her midwifery research, the same task she stopped analyzing as soon as she heard the bell yesterday.

The hop on the wooden seat caused the other arm to snap in two against the back.  Charlie’s tight-gripping hand fell away and nearly tossed her wiry form off the seat.  To make sure she did not yank the original broken arm out again, she had used the animal glue, then tied with twine in place until fully harden.  Her round sky blue eyes flashed at the new break, whining at the snapped part and already knowing this specific mess will not be well hidden.  Gareth might give her a tongue lashing for her accident prone tendency.  No, that was not his nature.  The man was extremely laid back and rarely rose his voice.  More likely, he will just sigh, take the chair, and try to make a splint for the break until the farmer carpenter could plane another arm after the harvest.

Oh how Charlotte created more work for this family than assisted.

Three knocks rasped again on the cabin’s thin door rotting on the rusted hinges.  Charlie glanced outside.  Neither front window allowed her to see who it might be, but the dusk illustrated her unexpected visitor came during dinner.  Charlie’s heart jumped into her throat, her shaking and guilt rising like earlier that day.  Please, do not be _him._   Let her be invisible.  Let her be long forgotten, a forgotten stone ripple on a large lake that the commander tossed haphazardly during his visit.

Every time Charlie thought back to the deceitful discussion in the grove, panic blinded her cloudy vision and her burning ears rang like Chantry bells from high blood pressure.  Now, many bells after the encounter, Charlotte mudded over better lies or situations to explain her presence on the farm.  She could be from an adjacent farm, visiting the forgotten dead on the Rutherford Homestead.  She could have stated she was lost in the woods and discovered the graves unattended on such an important holiday.  Or, a scholarly traveler who took a walk and hid from the festivities in town.

No, the widow was buried in her lie now.  So, while nibbling on almonds, the researcher wrote her altered life story, although a big fat lie, but something to keep straight without breaking the ex-templar’s confidence _too_ much.  Her hasty note to Mia and Rosalie earlier just stated she met Cullen and she introduced herself as a servant and former refugee following the Mage-Templar War, not an official family member as the siblings constantly reminded her.  From that day forward, she will take care of all the wash, handle all milk products, muck out the animal stalls, and animal feedings to secure the ruse.  She did such chores anyway, but since Cullen’s arrival, she avoided such tasks to stay nonexistent.  So, instead of not existing, the widow will do almost most of the work the women divided among one another a share cooperating unit.

Still, Charlie’s watering eyes bore into the door.  She pulled her shawl over her shoulders.  Since her homemade dress was a ragged mess from the encounter, torn in many places from her dash off into the thicket, Charlie decided to change into an old tan dress Mia wore prior to children altering her shape.  It showed its age with torn hems and picked weaves, but it was one of the first clothing given to Charlie when she arrived on the homestead.  Her original clothing torn and beyond repair.  It served as a physical reminder of her role now until Charlie gave up the crusade.

“Charlie, it’s me.”  A familiar baritone voice mumbled through the rotting wood.  Charlie blew out her red cheeks.  Branson, thank goodness, although the nickname can cause more harm than good.  Even though the two brothers sounded similar, Cullen’s vocal cords seemed torn probably from years of commands and the shame hanging around his neck.  On the other hand, Branson’s tone was lower and warm almost breaching bass notes.

Branson became Charlie’s advocate when she arrived there two years ago bleeding and scared.  He was the one that discovered her frozen body faced down while lying on her side in the snow, her womb cut open by her husband’s hunting knife.  Charlie still did not know how long she laid there in the blizzard.  While the blizzard nearly killed her, it slowed the blood loss.  Hypothermia caused her to lose the pinky toe on her left foot, her newest excuse for clumsiness, even though that existed since she was born.  In her first years of life were spent with bruises all over her body from tumbling into furniture.  Charlie swore she had two left feet no matter what she wore or how she practiced walking.

At the time, Branson had been searching for a lost druffalo, the same that would later lick Charlie while tangled in the fence wire.  The ole gal was restless most days, so her breaking free was not a new occurrence.  Although, this specific blizzard last days and threatened animals’ lives if not properly sheltered.  Gareth combed another field across the homestead.  Branson knew the forest fairly well and felt comfortable wandering another in the middle of winter with very low visibility.  When the Rutherford son found her, the young man thought she was dead.  So much red, he reflected later…Still, he carried her ashen and blue form back to her sister’s home, making a remark to Mia that the druffalo shapeshifted into a pregnant lost soul.

Branson gazed at Charlotte with such warmth and understanding that for a time, Rosalie thought her brother was falling for her.  Charlie knew otherwise.  Branson loved Abigail and Lynton.  No, the stare in his eyes was of a kindred spirit, specifically towards Roane not Charlotte.  The widow knew her husband better than himself, and Branson appreciated that same understanding during a difficult time in his own life.  Branson and Roane’s personalities were quite similar, jokesters who needed someone to keep them from getting too bombastic.  They sprinkled humor into a tense situation to lighten harsh opinions.

However, unlike Roane, Branson had a punitive temper that could get physically violent if pushed.  He never harmed anyone with his tool tossing and screaming, but the horror the man unleashed reminded most observer of a rabid wolf possessed by a demon.  In those moments, though few in number, Abigail would call for Charlotte.  His outburst scared the wife of five years.  Everyone knew the younger Rutherford would never hurt his family, but the foam dripping from his jowls and blood slot eyes terrified the young wife. 

Somehow in all the chaos, only Charlie could enter the room or building and talk him down from his fury.  While Charlie had been petrified by such behavior initially, witnessing similar actions in her alcoholic grandfather, she spoke in soft tones and barely moved even while breathing.  Her mother, Emma, acted much the same throughout her adult life, wishing to be invisible when that alcoholic grandfather threw his fists.  Charlotte’s reflective questions and thought-provoked points stemmed from years of mental health mediation and recovery.  By the end of the outburst, Branson usually sat on the smithy floor bawling his green eyes out and apologizing to anyone in his warpath.

Branson harbored a great deal of anger for multiple valid reasons.  Much of the time, it simmered under his skin as he gritted his teeth.  Only his light jokes could cool the heat radiating and fueling his heart.  However lately, the cork barely tempered the foaming and boiling liquids inside a fragile glass bottle.  With Cullen’s expected visit, a potential resolution to Branson’s wrath seemed plausible.  While the older brother did not deserve the blame for _all_ the harshness, Branson saw Cullen as the origin.  Nearly fifteen years of muddling over the past only seethed Branson to irrational conclusions.

Charlotte knew the bubbling bottle will explode sometime while Cullen stayed at his sister’s homestead.  Branson did not want the man there, writing off his existence a decade ago.  The younger brother swore days before his arrival that if Cullen threatened Charlotte, he will gladly go to the arl’s dungeons for beating the ex-templar within an inch of his life.  Charlie and he both knew Branson was not a warrior and likely the opposite would occur, but the unnecessary statement still demonstrated Branson’s raging sentiment.

A sickening catalytic thought crossed Charlie’s mind as she slowly stood from her broken chair.  Shifting the wool shawl closer over her chilled body, Charlotte wondered if Branson was at her door to pick a fight with the other brother.  Now that Charlotte’s existence was known, Branson might pettily poke his brother by showing affection and understanding towards this complete stranger.  The action—if true—was extremely dangerous.  Townspeople already remarked Charlotte was disrupting that marriage.  In actuality, Abigail regarded her as a best friend, one she never had in her own youth as a disgraced nobleman’s daughter.  Lynton was Charlie’s godchild, but that origin story sent a sickening nausea through the widow.  If circumstances were better, Charlie might be living at Branson’s townhome instead of the homestead.

With soft bare footfalls, Charlotte approached the latched door, swallowing hard and mentally preparing herself for the fall out about to occur.  Her thin fingers slid the wood and metal bar keeping the rotting door shut.  Even though, a single shoulder shove could break the whole thing from the distressed frame.  Depending on the pending circumstances, the door will need replaced before winter set in.

With a sky blue peek, Charlotte opened the door enough to peer between the frame and door.  “Branson?  What are you doing here?”

The smith was still dressed in his finer clothes for the holiday.  It was unusual to not see coal dust on his brow or across his knees.  Branson preferred leather and tough cloth materials, despite the warmer Fereldan summer.  With his profession, he needed his clothing to stay strong while near the forge and hauling charcoal.  His hands sat in his leather vest pockets, while his twine tunic sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  His tight leather pants defined his strong muscles from shoveling and moving iron ore each day.  The muscles attributed greatly during the fall harvest.

Branson was a tall man who wore his tight curly dirty blond hair shoulders length, braided, and tied back at the ears.  However, he struggled with growing a thick beard, so he just kept a clean shaven face.  Abigail supported her husband’s urge to look older than his thirty years, but she hated his stubbly whiskers.  The married couple had a rule that Branson’s hair can never be longer than Abigail’s despite the younger Rutherford wanting something akin to his once mentor’s locks.  Abby mentioned to Charlie once she feared her husband burning his whole head with so much hair bouncing everywhere.

The younger Rutherford male perked a brown eyebrow.  “Didn’t you hear the dinner bell?”

Charlotte opened the door a little more, biting a piece of loose skin off her lip.  She had heard the three consistent rings several times over the last half hour bell, but ignored them.  She figured it was for the children probably wearing themselves out playing throughout the day.  Somewhere, Phoebe probably fell asleep multiple times from tiring herself out only to be wired again a bell later.  Oh, how Charlie wished for children’s spunky energy again.  “Well yes, but I assumed it was the children ignoring Mia’s well-known announcement.”

Branson rolled his green eyes.  “Of course you assumed that…”  his baritone turned bass with his retort.  “Did you not think it might be, you know, for _you?_!”

Charlie’s jerked back at his bite, scrunching her nose.  “Me?!  Oh, heck no!  Now, more than ever, I need to be invisible to define my ‘role’ here.  I was waiting until dark to tending to the barn stalls.”

The younger brother’s temper bubbled in his hazel green irises.  “For all the Maker’s…”  Charlie could see him counting to five mentally to reduce his urge to yell and scream.  It seemed his temper was sitting over a bellow fire the whole day.  He was on his last bellow’s push before the forge fire popped and caught the human smithy on fire.

“I take you don’t know about the change of plans?”  Charlie meekly cooed in hopes her sweet calm voice would reduce the flames singeing his skin.

“Oh, I know.”  Branson huffed, burying his hands deeper in his vest pockets.  “I also know it is damn fucking unbelievable!”  His left hand pointed down at the main house.  “The person who should be being subservient to anyone here is that damn commander his whole ‘power complex.’  He should be kissing the ground you walk on instead being served by _you_.”  He lowered his hand glanced away.  “Of all the stupidity…”

Charlotte leaned against the doorframe and sighed, bringing Branson’s attention back to the widow standing before him.  “I truly messed up, Branson.  I…if my brain had been working, I would have made up something better or actually, you know, spilled the beans.  However, based on what I heard today and Rosie’s insight last night, I need to understand everything a little more before the spilling mead as known as my controversial knowledge.”

Branson deflated at the explanation, hunching his shoulders.  “I know…”  His green eyes flickered at her with a small grin.  “Out of everyone, you should never be perceived beneath your mind and abilities.  I am sought after by farmers, welders, and masons in the whole bannorn because of what you assisted me in developing.  My ‘steel’ is strong, keep an edge longer, and long lasting.  My profits are high, while my costs are low.  My family could move into that fine village house because you gave me a new direction that made sense and the material possible, but no smith ever dared experiment.”

“Bran-“

The smith held up an index finger.  “And don’t make me remind you that your expertise saved my son’s life.  I know you are searching for ways to save Mia’s pregnancy right now.  Abby has never felt so comfortable about trying for another child as right now.”

Joy sprinkled across Charlotte’s face.  That admission meant a great deal to the widow.  Knowing Branson and Abby’s struggles… “Oh Bran, that’s wonderful!”

The Rutherford man stared into nothing, smiling.  “We didn’t want to tell anyone in fear it might jinx everything, but Charlie,”  His green orbs shimmered in gratitude.  “You mean the world to us…to me.  How-how do you expect me to talk _down_ to you when I would like to make you mayor!”

Charlie laughed at the comparison.  The Rutherfords suggested such tomfoolery last year during local leadership nominations.  While the family loved her, the crazy stray was not beloved by the village.  “You all know I hate politics.”

“Which is why South Reach needs you more than ever.  I won’t give up on that crusade…”  The smith replied with a smirk.  “Come on, everyone’s waiting and Mia’s pork spit roast awaits.  I’m starving!  I had to fix damn Bill Bonnett’s wagon again even though the dummy hasn’t paid for the last two times.  That was the only way the square would be clear for festivities in time!”

Charlie shrank.  “A ‘servant’ doesn’t dine with the family…”

Branson threw her a stare that could have lit her on fire.  “It’s a holiday.  Even on holidays, nobles and servants share a table.  Well, they’re supposed to.  What would Andraste say about her beloved Ferelden if not?”

He had her there.  Charlotte glanced down at herself, quickly thinking of another excuse.  “After my mud rolling today, I’m filthy and have nothing to wear.”  While yes, she scrubbed her face and restyled her hair after returning from the whole excursion, Charlotte was still quite unkempt for a holiday dinner.  Knowing she was going to mop the stalls of manure after her meager meal, there was no point of freshening up now.

“I heard about your mabari encounter.”  Branson hissed through his teeth.  “Rosie said you looked like someone hit you with Bonnett’s cart when you dropped off that blasted note.  I should sock that damn man for even ruining your dress.  It’s one of my favorite despite you always remarking it’s stained with blood.  Personally, I think it gives it even more character.”

“Says the man who thinks charcoal dust as a feature, not a terror to scrub from wool.”  Charlotte mocked back.  “Besides, I could wear this old thing to demonstrate my role and quickly leave after grabbing a few bites-“

Branson held up a hand.  “Woah.  By inviting you to dinner, we are saying you are not just serving, grabbing a plate, marching across the homestead, and back to this old thing.  No.  Do you think Mia would allow that?”  Charlotte’s cheeks blanched.  Oh, the eldest Rutherford would have words for the whole arling to hear if Charlie pulled that.  “Besides, Rosie knows you have your burnt orange dress out here.  She said you had both holiday dresses hanging up for today.  You women and never knowing about what to wear…Abby’s the worse about that.”

“I’m still dirty-“

“Then scrub up!  Time’s awastin’!”  Branson waved inside.  “I’ll stay out here until you’re done.  Give it up, you stubborn woman.  You ain’t winning this battle.  Yes, Mia’s back is bowed worse than a whittled yew, but I’m not leaving without you!  If I did, said pregnant sister, Rosie, _and_ Abby will yank your ear off and probably never stop hounding me for taking too long.”

Charlotte exhaled and hung her head.  Her matted blond waves fell into her face, only half tied back.  She lost this fight.  “Fine, Rutherford.  Give me a few moments to seem half respectable.”

With a reluctant hand, the isolated widow closed the front door and turned towards her small clothing crate.  Charlie ignored the sprayed nuts and parchment littering the floor, a task for later.  She had refolded the burnt orange dress after returning from the grove, needing something to do to relax her jumping heart.  With a passing hand, she picked up a wooden bucket of streaming water lying by her small fire and brought it to her bedside.  She froze before pulling at the dress ties, hearing Branson’s ballad whistles coo into the dusk air.  He always did that, walking in on his sisters dressing too many times throughout the last fifteen years.  Since Charlotte arrived, he utilized the trick to let her know where he was so not have the repeat run in the first time Charlie was strong enough to wash alone.  Oh nelly, that was a nightmare.

With the dress and chemise removed, Charlotte wetted a rag, did a once over her whole body to remove much of the dirt and twinges remaining.  While looking dirty would match her cover story, being messy for a festive dinner was not in her plans.  Mia religiously kept everyone to a healthy standard inside the farmhouse, which included grimy limbs and musty smells.  Gareth hated it after a long days working, but the mud entrance hallway room at the house’s back entrance was a healthy compromise.

With the rag dropped into the bucket, Charlie grabbed her other clean chemise, then the burnt orange dress.  She will definitely need to clothing wash tomorrow.  The upper hem was close to her shoulders and neck, the draw strings tight to her lower back and long sleeved arms.  The summer air cooled sustainably as the sun went down, so the needed warmth with be wonderful once she trucks back to the old watermill.  She snatched her leather belt, pulling off the large pouch, but kept her husband’s hunting knife by her back hip. 

With a few quick flicks, her unruly hair was mermaid braided enough to keep it out of her face but lose down her back.  Still her rebellious front bangs broke free and covered her ears.  For once, Charlotte thank the heavens for their temperament.  She could hide behind them when the commander’s scowl and inquisitive gaze settled on her during dinner.  At last, the widow slipped on a pair of leather souled slippers that required no socks.  She knew she would be sweating through her palms and feet the entire time waiting for something to fall apart and ruin the whole holiday dinner and Charlotte’s life.

So many things can go wrong if someone just said something wrong.

But, in an ounce, in a pound.

Charlotte stoked the fire, snapped the same embroidered hood from that afternoon, and blew out her desk candle.  She will clean up her forgotten meager dinner later.  The whole cabin desperately needed attention.  However, she definitely gulped the last of the mead.  Liquid courage!

Branson pivoted once he heard the old building’s door open.  Charlotte slipped up her hood, her lips pursed and blue eyes turned downward.  As soon as left her sanctuary, she must be this beaten soul earning her keep.  Branson noticed immediate the shift in temperament and immediately huffed.  Once again, that fire bellowed behind his frustrated eyes.

“This is the stupidest ploy…”

“It must be, Mester Branson…” Charlie’s thick accent rang through the scattered woods and rye field as they walked out towards the meadow.  “Until me knows what’s going on, I’ll keep low and nod.  Makes me no different from elves in the Alienage or dwarves begging for coin.”

“No one should be like this…”  Branson hissed, shoving his hands back in pockets.  “The kids are going to ruin your act, you know?”

Charlie walked a few paces behind Branson as a servant would.  “True, me Lord, but what does he know about your children?  Charlie’s a chicken, ain’t that right?”

Branson barked a half laugh at that.  “Mia told me about that.  Of all the ones too, the one you encourage Peter to chase on all the time.  Poo thing just needs to be put out of her misery.”

“It keeps peckin’ and layin’, me Lord.”  Charlie sang with a smirk.  “Me and it are kin, ya?”

By now, Charlie’s outrageous accent got Branson laughing.  “All this cocking from a woman who taught me how to read and write not just Common, but Free Marcher dialects…”

“Can’t really believe me Lord never learned more than needed vocabulary and countin’.”  Charlotte meant that truly from the heart.  “For this refugee with no speakin’ ways actually taught natives their own words and letters.”

Branson sighed and studied the sunset colors warming the homestead within sight.  “If my parents didn’t need me so much on the farm back then, I would have learned more from the Chantry sisters.  After all, farm kids aren’t supposed to be bright.  Maybe if they lived, I could have learned more in the winter months.”

“Education is a being’s right.”  Charlotte returned to her usual speak for a moment.  “It is used a tool by the upper crust to rule over the rest of the population.  You barely could read the Chant before, Bran.  Abby only knew because of her father’s old status.  What about Lynton?  Would he be the next generation not knowing if he had rights because he couldn’t read the arling’s laws?  No.  I might play this act, but it should never be an act.  Trapped in Circles, mages must learn to read and write because how else can they survive their harrowings.  Templars learn so they read the Chantry’s bullshit and can outsmart the mages.  Nobles learn to keep their hold over the lower classes.  Elves lost their language.  It’s outlawed in villages and city, so only the Dalish speak it openly in their clans.  Qunari around are Tal-Vashoth, so fuck learning their own language despite if their previous roles even allowed them to read and write.  Dwarves forgot most of their own ancient alphabet.  The titan discovery only revived knowing the ancient words means something now.  All I see is injustice and inequality, Branson.  No matter where I am, it flows like wars’ blood everywhere.”

Branson only nodded.  “But so I have to repeat back to you that what you said so many times throughout the years:  what can one person do?”

Charlie should have known that old encouragement would bite her in the behind.  She stated that then to illustrate why she needed to go to Skyhold.  The conversation occurred in his home that night he found her seven months ago staring down the West Road.  He stayed up all night talking to her so she did not leave without his knowledge.  What Branson threw back in her face now was that one person _can_ change the world…for good or bad.  She barely believed she could make a difference then.  The next catastrophe was about to hit the Inquisition.  She could warn them.  But alas, Branson convinced her that night she could not to anything.

Now, this smith insulated the opposite.  Much like his cheers for her to be mayor or not act like an uncultured lady at dinner, Branson believed Charlie could change the world.  His wording stated that while the Inquisition’s mistakes were only theirs, she can do something _here_ in South Reach that can ripple throughout Ferelden.  Already people questioned the smith about his purer and strong steel.  The Arl questioned Gareth and Mia on how their yield excelled the last two years.  The attention focused on this family stemmed from Charlie’s presence.  In her mind, she only truly had one goal:  save Cullen.  She can change his fate.  She can change _that_ specific world.

“I’m no warden or stiff warrior with a great axe in Kirkwall or even a selfish asshole marked Herald.  It was you, me Lord, who cried I’m needed here.  So, me here with you all.  We’ll just have to see what falls out from me choices than listenin’ to your yappin’.”

Branson huffed and rolled his eyes.  “He doesn’t deserve your care.  He should be shoved back to his pretty castle in the sky and left to wallow in his dirty glory.”  He stopped in front of Charlotte right before they crested the last hill to the house.  How they were angled, no one would see them from the house’s croft.  Yet, she did not know where Cullen was.  He could see everything with that commanding stare that burrowed into her back just bells before.  “Why invite this on yourself?!  You couldn’t just left it all alone.  It would have saved everyone, including you.”

“Is that why you didn’t show up last evening when Cullen arrived?”  Charlotte snapped back in her usual speech.  “You couldn’t face him after all this time?”

In the dusk’s reds and golds, Charlotte could see how much the smith’s cheeks matched the burning sky.  “You calling me a coward, Char?!”

Charlotte stood on her tippy toes.  “No.  I am stating you placed your sisters in a predicament not only last night, but today when you finally did see him!”  The truth caused Branson to deflate.  “Rosie could have benefited from her brother—the one she actually knows—not the stranger now a part of this house.  Meanwhile, Mia had to handle her pregnancy, her husband, and her children around someone who she only remember as a budding adolescent, probably pimpled to creation and running from milkmaids!”  Branson burst out laughing at the apparently very true depiction.  Seeing the fury burn down, Charlie calmed her voice.  “What I am trying to say, you big lout, is that whatever happens, I—no, we need you to keep that fiery soul of yours at embers.  _I_ need you this evening, Bran.”  Tears welled up in Charlotte’s eyes.  “I’m scared and confused and guilt-filled.  I know things that will make that man _very_ angry.  I don’t know if he is like you.  My life is in his hands.  But, I hold his in mine, and potentially others if this is successful.  If everyone did what a decent person would do, this phobia burning in me would be just a fright like when you knocked today.  If you want to hold me to what one person can do, then _help_ me.  Don’t pick fights.  Go along with this charade.  Keep your wit, but not snappy quips I know you do to cut an adversary at the knees.  I need your humor.  Abby and you are essential.  Gareth will do whatever Mia tells him to while she is heavy while children.  Rosie will watch and pour her goodness over all to keep the peace.  Children will speak children’s thoughts.  I am banking that the commander doesn’t know what to truly except from the raw recruits he trained.  Don’t give into your wrath, Branson Arthur Rutherford.  You are better than that.”

Charlotte did not mean to lecture the man her own age.  From his slumped shoulders and shamed expression, Charlotte’s original assumption that he will poke and prod his brother was correct.  The bellow fires were burned out within him as she nearly cried.  “I don’t want to lose you, Charlie.  You get me.  I wish you were there so long ago…”

Tears wetted at the strong man’s baritone confessions.  She touched his face with her shaking hand, her light fingers feeling the day’s stubble gracing her strong jaw.  “I’ll do my best, my friend.  I don’t want the worst to come either.”

Branson grabbed Charlotte, hugged her tightly to his chest, and buried his face in her loose waves.  “This is why I didn’t want you to go then.  This is why I didn’t want that twat here.  Thank the Maker I found you, because if I didn’t know better, I would say a spirit came through the Veil and blessed this family with your presence.”

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut.  “How do you know I am not really a spirit?  The ‘magic’ I weave here.  How the crops grow.  How your smithy produces the best steel tools.  How all of you know how to write your own language now.”

“Spirits and demons do both, yes, but your magic, Char, is blessed by the Maker himself.  Only the Maker could break the mold with you.”

“Roane said something similar back in the day.”  Charlie giggled into his leather vest.

“Well, he would know the most, wouldn’t he?”  Branson relaxed his iron grip on Charlie’s shoulders and stood back.  “He freed you.  He sent you here.”

A few tears escaped Charlotte’s tight control.  She did not need to walk into the house with blood-slot eyes.  “I miss him, Bran…”

"Especially today?"

Charlotte nodded twice.

“Good thing you’re eating with us then.  You would be in that damn shack bawling until you fall asleep.”

“Who said I wouldn’t tonight?”

Branson eyed her closely, then winked.  “Because I am going to make you laugh any chance I get.”

“Charlotte, is that brother of mine giving you a lashing!?”

Both Charlie and Branson jumped at the hollering from over the hill.  Branson burst out laughing, covering his mouth to lessen the outburst.  Meanwhile, Charlotte bounced on her feet, wiped away the tears, and called back.  “No, me Lady.  I was telling I shouldn’t be-“

“-Get in here before I have Branson carry you!”  Mia carefully half-joked, while acting like she was speaking to a servant.

“I’ll do it too!”  Branson yelled back, nudging Charlie in the arm with his elbow.

“Then, come on!  These twins are making me ravenous!”

Charlie quickened her step over the hill.  “Yes, me Lady.  Of course, me Lady.   Me sowwies, me Lady!”

“You’ll be sorry when I eat us all out of house and home!”

Charlie gave one last smiling glance back Branson.  The younger brother gave a thumb’s up and nodded, a silent agreement to behave himself.  With Branson’s fury now embers, Charlie could move that consequence lower down the list of fiascos that could happen that evening.  Now, her biggest problem cried her nickname from behind her mother, bouncing on her tiny feet and summer dress.

“CHARLIE!  CHARLIE!  CHARLIE!  MAMA, CHARLIE’S COMING HOME!”

Oh nelly, Phoebe is going to get this scholarly widow murdered by midnight!


End file.
